Suicide Note

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.