When I'm gone, I don't want your pretty words. I don't want gatherings and reminiscences. None of you have earned that. You'll do it anyway, I know. You'll do it to prove that you owned a little piece of me.
But you're wrong. What you had is wha(more)t I gave you. What you knew was the me I wore to pass. A menagerie of self-deprecating non-sequiturs that you spun into a narrative in which something, somehow, mattered.