suicide

(tw:suicide. i was asked to write about this subject)

regret is a second, and guilt is a first

i feel like i helped you find your own hearse
it takes time to grieve, openly receive 
gifts of solemn comfort

disgusted, confused, not due to you
but things i cant control
like how the world's so bleak,
that you couldnt speak, and instead are silent forever

i am bemused at peoples surprise
"it wasn't like him", "she never gave in"
ive thought about it myself, i cant lie
and still do, i know you know why

i wont tell if you dont,
swear on your grave
i hold dear all the things you gave
and resent even more

because you are gone does not absolve 
all the problems you couldnt solve
i am still angry, and mad at you dear
so many things that you can not hear
things i am only now starting to understand.

i miss you, i do, undo if i could
so many 'if's, any not enough 'whys'
how come we dont care while youre still alive?