Let this poem be the obituary
I never get to give myself
And a letter to the archeologist who finds my skeletons
Here is what my mouth couldn't speak of
And what my bones couldn't tell you
My bones will never tell you that
I was born from a woman who saw me as a burden
Whose love I second guessed all my life
It wont tell you that
I was born from a man with a soul
As sane as angel
Whose love saved me from thousand deaths
It wont show you
My pierced skin
My bruised thighs
My slayed wrists
My battles
And how
Everyone run to home to find peace and
How I was forced to do the opposite
It won't say a thing about how
I fought a disease which succeded at silencing me
An illness which left me separated from
Society in a cubicle with lives that salivate over death
Whose way of living society fears and pities
At the same time
Whose wardrobe is filled with long sleeved shirts and everything able to dump scars and insecurities in
A group of faces that learnt at a young age
Of how to make pretty shit out of painful shit
It wont tell you how many times
I wiped tears off my chick
It wont show you the bags under my eyes
It wont ever tell you that my path of healing started with suffocating my pain inside a bottle of pills
I was like a puzzle whose pieces were found in different people but noone could put together
I hope that maybe this could help you
So make this also a letter of forgiveness
For the ones I hurt in my silence
To my Daddy
And mostly Myself.