They surround me as if I was important, those
Fake mourners,
Those dry tears.
The roses given after death, not during life,
Were for me, for their regrets.
They spoke then,
Words so clear:
\"They were good.\"
\"They were kind.\"
\"They lived.\"
Did she? Or was she hidden by a curtain, one
You put up, not to protect, but to
Shun and shame.
\"They loved.\"
I loved, but not you. Never
You.
\"They were happy.\"
Living with you? Hearing the things you
Said? No, I died inside, much
Like how I am now.
\"They spoke up.\"
Not when you yelled. Not when you
Drowned
My voice. I was silenced, but not silent. I
Was punished, but never the punisher.
Not when you told me
To change my mind on who
I loved. On who I
Was.
\"They read so often.\"
I read to escape, to leave. I read
To avoid the yelling.
\"They smiled so much.\"
Maybe I did, but don\'t think
That smile reached my heart. I felt none
Of the laughter inside.
\"Thank you.\"
Thank you for what? Thanks for the flowers
I will never hold, and the
Love I will never have. Thanks for the
Hate in my heart, and the sadness in my
Head. Thanks for the future you made me
Take from myself. Thanks for the friends
I never saw, never held. Thanks for the
Confidence I never possessed.
So when you read this letter,
This letter that took my life,
Feel the pain and the
Regrets. Put those flowers by my coffin,
But not inside it.
Watch the rain fall, and the way
My body lies so still. Tell her I loved her,
Not my mother, and as you read
This suicide note, remember who I was,
Thanks to you.