Those few weeks before

I knew something was wrong

From the music he was listening to

To his dearly departed smile


That day he didn't show up again


He'd been there



That night

The world froze

I couldn't see him

But I could feel


His heartbeat

His pulse

His life

Slowing to an almost nonexistent pace


Forefinger on the trigger


Falling backwards

Spiraling into his dark abyss


Then he was gone

Another day


Then another


Day after day

Week after week


Whispers of where he had gone echoed through the halls



But somehow I knew


He must have tried

To bring an end

Must have been shut in the psych ward

Isolated in his little white room


Weeks later

I saw him again

He confirmed my worst fears

Cemented in the nightmares


But what was he worried about

Not that he tried

Not that he failed



His worry was his sweatshirt

"They cut it off me"

"I loved that sweatshirt"

Forget the hunting rifle that caused it


But what could I do

Besides cry

Besides quiver

Besides clutch him for dear life


For the life he tried to take from himself

This poem is about: 
My family


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