“So, while you’re fixing up your bed and while you’re organizing drawers,
Could you just listen to the problems had with problems of yours. 
And What’s that note you’re writing there?
Why are you giving me this back?
This was a gift from when we met back when you weren’t so upset.”

I called in sick from your funeral.
The sight of your body made me feel [bad word] 
I couldn’t recognize your shell.

Your branching off had met an end from all the weight that made you bend.
And When you tried to shed your leaves you pined for warmth
As they said “your lack of love for your dear self is sapping all of us here out.
Trace your roots back to the ground work out the knotholes for yourself.”

I called in sick from your funeral.
The sight of your family made me feel responsible.
And I found the notes you left behind; little hints and helpless cries, desperate wishing to be over.

You said you’re trapped in your body
And getting deeper every day.
They diagnosed you born that way.
They say [bad word] in your family.
conscious erasure of working class background
Where despair trickles down
Imbalanced chemical [bad word] 
Open up. Swallow down.
You said “remember me for me.
I need to set my spirit free.”

I called in sick from your funeral.
Tradition of closure nearly felt impossible.
I should have never gave my word to you;
Not a cry not a sound.
Might have learned how to swim but never taught how to drown,
You said “remember me for me”.
I watched you set your spirit free.