at my funeral

at my funeral,
my obituary is etched into my body
tales of my life transcribed on my skin

at my funeral,
i am being read Miranda rights by my casket
i have the right to remain silent, but i don’t

at my funeral,
the priest is praying but it is not for me
it is too late to get a ticket, and the train moves on

at my funeral,
I watch from the back pew, eating popcorn
the kernels pass through my soul, but that’s okay

at my funeral,
my family speaks, but I tune them out
I watch the old woman knitting in the corner

at my funeral,
the body is on display but no one looks
the dress they put me in is white, I look so young

at my funeral,
they leave, but my mother stays behind to cry
she was always supposed to go first, not me

at my funeral,
it is not mine. this celebration of my life is false
I am being detained for the crime of existing

at my funeral,
I dig my own hole. Ghostly fingers pulling up the earth
I put the casket in the ground, I carry it’s full weight

at my funeral,
I talk to the body one last time before I leave
and it whispers of forgiveness, of apologies

at my funeral,
I hold hands with another, and we laugh harmoniously
Sinning never felt as good as it did on holy ground

at my funeral,
I did not become an angel. I did not become holy.
It was my awakening. I began to live again.