if i die young...

 If I Die Young

If I am called home, by god, or by my own hand, please let these things be known. 

Give my phone to my sister, let her hold all of my secrets and reveal every reason why I let go so young. I can't fathom her feeling at fault, or guilty, when the only guilty party is myself. I've always been too weak to just keep moving forward, always stuck in a loop of past events and memories and mistakes. So give her my knowledge, my poems, my songs, my life. Let her be the keeper of my story and let her be the only one who knows, it's too painful to tell. 

Give my crystals to my mother, give her every ounce of my love and energy I left behind. She may not believe in my ridiculous magic rocks, but I did. I infused them with all of my kindness and love, knowing that even if she didn't often acknowledge the help, she needed it. The extra bit of strength I could give her, was my life's purpose until my dying breath. 

Give my guitar to my brother, let my passion be shown through his talent. His fingers pressing the strings in a way I was never quite strong enough to master. 

Give my flowers and my paintings to my baby sister, the one I helped raised, who accidently called me mom more often than not. Tell her these dried hanging flowers, are a symbol of my undying love for her, and my paintings represent the joy and emotions that came with her presence in my life. 

And to my baby brother, I may have not seen you growing up, or been around much, but you were the fresh start and second chance my dad deserved. his biggest blessing, and out of the five of us, you have the best chance. so i'll be watching you from wherever I am, cheering you on. 

Give my dad back his stolen tshirts and hoodies, he was the only man i loved enough to wear reminders of traumatic memories. those clothes held memories of drunken stumbling, and one night stands he thought he hid from his childs prying eyes. but they also held his scent, and his love, and were for years, the only hug i would get from him. he loved me, he did. just not enough to show it. 

Give my clothes to someone who will wear them without fear of being too big, or too small, who will not leave them hanging in the closet because the mirror isn't her friend today. give them to someone who isn't afraid to walk around in her own skin, someone who eats when they're hungry and doesn't cry afterwards. 

And wear colors at my funeral that remind you of who I was. Play dreams by fleetwood mac, and dance like fairies with my mother. Then play dream a little dream of me, and hold her while she cries. Wipe her tears and remind her, i'm at peace. plant me as a tree in her yard, so i can be with her always, just like she wanted.

pay for my spotify premium so my playlists i've made for you, still play. i made one for each person i know and love, despite the fact that no one has ever made me one. so maybe in my death do that, my final wish is to feel so wanted and cared for, that you make a list of songs that make you think of me. 

give my books to my bestfriend, she'll read my notes in the margin of every book, and feel close to me. she'll be getting to have one last debate with me, and read my funny jokes, in my weird script like handwriting. and give her my letters. love letters, hate letters, my last letter. give her my writing so she can peer into my soul one last time, and have a tangible piece of evidence that shows just how much she meant to me. 

on the anniversary of my death, celebrate. every year. a beautiful dance around a fire surrounded by people who share in that pain and turn it into art. paint for me, sing for me, laugh for me. smoke a joint with my mom while she retells my most beautiful times alive. and drink a beer with my dad, and comfort him when he says he didn't know me well enough. 

bury me in a field of sunflowers, dressed in all my favorite earth tones, with my socks inside out, and jewelry made of quartz and amethyst. blow my bangs out one last time, and paint my eyes purple like i used to love. 

tell me you forgive me. tell me i was loved, and i was enough. even if it's too late, and im far too gone already, tell me. 

dont be angry with me for listening when my body was too tired to speak, and my limbs too heavy to move. dont be angry with me for letting go too soon, or not hugging each of you one last time. 

and if you wont be angry with me, i wont be angry with you. for being too silent in my living, but screaming in the face of my death. for wishing to wrap your arms around a corpse, but taking for granted the warmth of my living figure. not a hug, or a second glance, no care for my struggles. even when i screamed in your face that im hurting, or posted online that im exhausted with life. i wont be angry that you didn't listen or love me, until i was gone.