When you die, who will remember your name,
Who will tell your story, what will be the same.

I cut my fingers while at work today,
I met eyes with a child whose colors were like a bouquet.

But what if my flowers are already wilted,
My perception of the world permanently tilted.

What I wish i’d known was that before I was grown,
Is that maybe I would have to do this all alone.

Who will tell my story when I die?
What if when i’m told it’s vilified?

What is this for,
What will I die for,
What will I say to death when she knocks on my door.

“I am proud of what I am”
Or “Please let me go back so I can try again”?

But then I turn to the child at my side,
The child who has my eyes

I realize thats me,
And I realize the paths i’ve taken make me who i’m meant to be.

Maybe I won’t be remembered as a savior, a martyr.
But maybe I don’t have a past I need to barter.

I will be remembered as a friend, a lover, a daughter.
And I’ll know I was loved because I see it in the eyes of my father.

I’m nothing special, in the grand scheme of things.
But if I can make someone smile, that's all I really need to bring.