Death Daydreams

I’m the kind of person who fantasizes about their own funeral 

Who desperately wants to know who would show up and weep the most

Who would comfort my mother and try to make themselves useful

Who would go home and tell their people about a friend they once knew

Who would sit alone at the bar and get lost in whiskey and my memory

I get pleasure from thinking that maybe

I’ve turned out to be someone worthy of missing 

Or that the people I thought stopped caring still do

They’d be able to admit it after I’m gone because

Sometimes the only way you can see clearly

Is through the rubble of your destroyed foundations 

Sure it’s nice to have people who care when you’re alive

But I want the unfiltered version

The raw love that only appears when you’re backed into a corner

Clothes ripped from your back and it’s the only thing you have left to give

Humans feel safer expressing how they truly feel when there’s no possibility

That the person who needed to hear it the most ever will

A sad irony of existence

Being alive is hell and maybe that’s why

Spying on my own funeral seems like my kind of fun