My death was not a pretty one.
My death was far from a grizzly one.
I did lay in a pool of my own blood.
But the deed was done by me.
In my last moment's I saw no white light.
In my last moments my life did not flash before my eyes.
My blood was not a beautiful crimson color, but rimmed me in a dark paint pink, edged with red.
My body was not still in a beautiful pose, but convulsed as the electricity went wild in my head.
The blade lay useless at my feet where it had fallen when I had finished the deed.
And when my body was discovered I watched my mother shake her head in shame.
My sister did shake and cry, but it was the blood that was the cause.
The police were called.
The ambulance arrived.
Alas there was naught they could do for I was already dead.
The mortician embalmed me.
The strong smell of formaldehyde.
I was dressed in clothes I never wore for the funeral was not for me but for my family.
To remember me as the child I never was.
They say sweet words they do not mean.
Flowers followed covering my body.
Their perfumes sting my nose.
My casket was closed and upon the strong back of my family I was carried to the four by six foot hole.
My casket was set in place, clumsily as my body was thrown from it's place.
The patter of more flowers followed suit.
The priest said his finally epiphany.
Followed by my family.
Then my casket was lowered to the cold depths of my grave.
The dirt was pile high six feet from the sky.
Beloved Daughter and Sister
And here I lay in my own grave.
A lie above my head.
I guess this is my hell trapped by my own mortal vessel.
For the sin I have committed.
No one comes to see me.
No mummered words of love .
Why would they I was not what they wanted up above.
Here I rest contemplating in my head.
Here I lay as heavy as lead.
This is what they mean by silent as the grave for evenonce they forget you,
you are nevertruly, truly dead.