The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.


30. O.D.

I killed myself in April, the gloomiest season yet.

When I died there were a million unanswered questions hanging in the air.

Friends of mine blamed themselves.

Teachers of mine quit their jobs.

Family of mine never talked.

No one ever stepped foot in my room again.

Summer came around and the sun never shined because the sky was too busy sobbing and it always seemed like there were raindrops on the windows.

Fall came around, and on my birthday everyone stayed in bed, too diminished to look at one another.

Just before the evening ended my best friend lost her life because she couldn’t cope without me, and my death depressed her more.

There is no heaven or hell.

All there is is a vast room of my life on replay while I look back ashamed and depressed.

Nobody ever saw my death coming, and nobody ever saw what terrible things the future held, so why hasn’t the hurting gone away?

Nobody was supposed to care, or love me, or need me, but if I could go back, I’d do it all again.


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