Some emotions don’t come out as polite conversation or quiet tears. They pour through in verses and rage, in words too jagged to be said aloud. This is one of those outpourings. A plea. A prayer. A final request not for forgiveness, but for understanding.
Sun wearing a shadow at night—a metaphor that lingers, like the feeling of hopelessness in the middle of a seemingly endless darkness. Sometimes, the mind becomes a maze, and the body, a fragile vessel caught in the crossfire.
We often speak of regrets as things we “get over,” but the truth is, many of us carry them like echoes. Loud in our quietest moments. So when I say I’m bleeding—when I say a cylinder I trusted holds the weight of my sorrow—I mean I’m at war with myself. I don’t want to snap. But I might.
And for that, I’m sorry. Sorry for the thoughts that claw at the back of my mind. Sorry for drowning in pain so deep I’ve turned to numbness. Sorry for not being sober, because sometimes feeling nothing feels safer than feeling everything.
But even within this mess, there’s hope. A flicker. The way love—pure, unassuming—can pull someone back from the brink, even briefly. I’ve felt it. A smile that wasn’t mine, but made one appear on my own face anyway. That brief ecstasy reminded me that despite it all, I was alive. And for a moment, maybe even blessed.
And that’s what this is about, really. Not the darkness, but the yearning for light. For dignity. For kindness, even in the end.
So when I die—and yes, I say that plainly because death is part of life—could we, just for a while, put aside the bitterness? The petty grudges, the harsh words, the misunderstandings that hardened over time like scars? Could you try to remember me not for my worst day, but for the times I smiled?
Could you help me be remembered? Not perfectly. Not sainted. But gently.
Bring flowers, sure, but not just for me. Bring them for everyone I’ve hurt, and for those who loved me anyway. Because grief is never simple. It’s tangled with relief, anger, sadness, guilt. And maybe, if we’re lucky, a little love.
I know I’ve sinned. Who hasn’t? But I’ve also smiled. I’ve laughed. I’ve tried. And isn’t that what we all do in the end—try to be normal, and good, in a world that often feels neither?
So when I’m gone, maybe just—maybe—shed a tear for me. Not because I was perfect. But because I was human.