Six Feet Under with Smoke in my Lungs

At my funeral, 

Mary Jane will be the first person to speak. 

In her bloodshot eyes, I wasn’t weak

Not a moment spent together bleak—

but she’ll still get nasty glares from my father.

and my brothers will point and laugh.

They'll say "told you it wouldn’t last,”

but at least grandma will save her a seat.

Then everyone will be surprised

at how little they realized 

I was struggling just to stay alive—

one inhale

And exhale at a time.

Mary Jane will tell them about the hours

we spent alone.

She'll have a jar of the tears we shed at home, 

and a list of all the times it became our tomb—

And still, I was stronger than the voice in my head.

it used to whisper in my ear

"I wonder if it would hurt

to put that blunt out under your shirt,”

You see, Mary Jane remembers

how my lips trembled

after the cops told me my step father was dead.

She'll tell everyone about how my hands

shook for a year after my mother was arrested.

But then she’ll laugh

and tell you about the times

my best friend and I hit the gravity bong at stop signs.

Then we’d come home to the confines

of a dark, empty home.

We cooked Google’s top-most rated desserts,

accompanied by sticky fingers and stained shirts.

We tried to stay quiet, but just locking eyes 

made us laugh until it hurt.

We never stopped for a moment to consider

how life would taint our hearts.