At my funeral I want you to talk about the days when the act of leaving my bed felt like running a marathon, the days when my head was a hive for dead bees under a monotone sky. Tell them in detail about my scars and how I kissed them goodnight because they were the only part of me that didn’t care about dressing up. Read them the suicide note I wrote when I was 17, reeking of weed and impulsiveness. Who knows, maybe someone will pick up on the Sylvia Plarh quote I threw in there, but don’t be surprised if they don’t. They’ll be surprised at first, to hear these things about such an intense person. “But Payton, really? She always seemed in love with life!” Tell them I was, I was completely and utterly in love with life. At my funeral tell them how I loved it too much sometimes, I drowned in it. The way I threw myself around before ever checking to see if there was a safety net. But I never grew wings, and the sky hasn’t fallen down yet so at my funeral tell them, there is a lot of good in the world, you just have to find it.