On the occasion that i die before i’m thirty,

there must be no mention of my migration or bravery; / if anyone reads poetry, let it only be an ode to green-tea donuts

On the occasion that i die before i’m thirty,

go through all my photos & release the nudes;
search the notes section of my phone & click on “addresses”—
the third one from the top, go there with a dozen spoiled eggs &
  aim for the second balcony, throw eight eggs &
 
 throw the remainder at the other balconies to avoid suspicion;
tell everyone that the first time i made love to a happy trail, i was 17 in a cemetery;
ask my mamá to adorn me in her pearl necklace—she’ll know which one;
tell all my exes that i nevaaaa stopped loving their trifling asses
  but don’t cha dare invite em to any celebrations;
walk through the richest neighborhood you can find & steal their potted plants,
  bring em to the service & gift em to all the guests;
the dress code for fifteen days following my death will be lace,
  anyone who doesn’t follow through nevaaaa learned how to love me;
serve sour gummy worms, Kit Kats, & hot Cheetos as the appetizer,
  pork belly & pineapple skewers as main dish & red velvet cheesecake for dessert;
i want Ivy Queen’s “Yo Quiero Bailar” as the opening prayer;
if you must start a GoFundMe, only allow it to be to book City Girls
  as the main entertainment, i want em for three days in a row;
in the closing remarks, there must be no mention of my migration or bravery;
if anyone reads poetry, let it only be an ode to green-tea donuts;
when they finally decide to put away my body, spray rose water on my corpse,
  pick up the oldest bottle of mezcal you can find & place it inside my casket.

On the occasion that i die before i’m thirty, remember that i was more than papers;
remember that i was more than gender; remember that i was more than flesh.

On the occasion that i die before i’m thirty, call me a lover; call me a hoe;
call me a dancer; call me your kin; call me yours; call me yours; call me yours.