Forgotten

People say they want to be remembered,

but I want to be forgotten.

I want my sister to forget I am here, so I don’t have to worry about causing her tears.

I want my father to forget his hopes and dreams for me,

so, when he realizes I have forgotten mine, it’ll be easier for him to see,

why.

Is it giving up? Weakness?

To move on.

People say it’s a skill.

I think they mean it takes courage.

So does staying.

I know that,

but I don’t know why I keep loving people meant to burn me to the ground.

Who here makes it all worth sticking around?

Not me.

I don’t want people to see my art when I’m gone.

I don’t want them to read my poems,

or tell my story.

I don’t want them to act like they know me,

like they could have seen me

I don’t belong here, and I never have,

I spent my life walking on the silver lining between dreams and reality,

Only one foot in the land of the living.

I’ve waited years to wake up,

to feel whole.

Now I know that’s not what my role here is.

My role is to be forgotten.

To drift into the cracks.

To let silence eat my words and break them,

down into letters and then into sounds and then into

emptiness…

My role is to remind the world that death is quiet, and it is dark, and it is always present,

but never seen.

I don’t think it remembers the places we’ve been.

When I think about goodbye, I think about what they’ll say when I’m gone.

But really, I hope they'll say nothing.

I hope my death won’t make ripples.

I hope the memories of me will stay small

until they are gone

and it’s like I was never here at all.