Poem.
Suicide.
Whenever I speak of that
word,
your name appears onto my
tongue,
along as your gravestone and
flowers.
It struggles to escape my
lips,
but all I hear is me speaking
your
obituary on the very
platform,
like a monotone robot, repeating
what
the gravestone explained how
you
beautifully spent your
days,
and how you slowly wilted away
from
us like flowers, blowing away by
the
wind, erased by existence. Your
casket
is closed and I'm trying not to
choke on
your name.