When I'm finally gone.

‎WHEN I'M FINALLY GONE.

When I'm finally six feet down,

‎don't do things you wouldn't

‎do if I wasn't dead.

‎

‎Don't pour the sand over my head

‎with the same hands

‎that refused to help

‎when you had the chance.

‎

‎And buy flowers too,

‎at least this one time.

‎

‎But don't call it love.

‎You had every chance

‎to give me flowers

‎while I was still here.

‎

‎Don't suddenly remember

‎how soft my heart was

‎when you were the reason

‎it learned to become hard.

‎

‎Don't tell them I was kind

‎if you only noticed

‎after I stopped being kind to you.

‎

‎Don't speak my name

‎with trembling lips

‎when you once couldn't

‎say it gently to my face.

‎

‎And please,

‎don't tell people

‎you would've saved me

‎when you watched me struggle

‎and called it nothing.

‎

‎Don't turn my absence

‎into a beautiful story

‎just because the ugly parts

‎would make you look guilty.

‎

‎You will miss my voice,

‎I know you will.

‎But I hope you remember

‎how many times

‎I spoke

‎and you chose not to listen.

‎

‎And when the flowers fade,

‎I hope you finally understand—

‎I never needed a funeral

‎to know I mattered.

‎

‎I needed you

‎to make me feel like I did

‎while I was still here.

‎