Ebony streaks, straight, brilliant hair
Concealed ropes wave and braid her soul
They are slit, stains of blood always there
Yet, she is there.
Her lover chokes on a note he bares
He stumbles at confusion as he reads aloud:
“Goodbye my dear, not that you careâ€
Never is always there.
A three digit number is carefully pressed
He awares the police, breathing confusion
Although he does good, he is still stressed
To me, reality was never there.
And now we’re baring buckets of tears
She was gifted with rare, yet often disliked
Compared to loners, for 3 continuous years
But in that time, she was there.
An announcement, a gasp, a cry
Now this is reality, and she isn’t there
A hand choking its heart, but why
Sometimes I can’t see, she isn’t there.
----
This is NOT a fictional poem, this is not the best I've written, it's based on truth- a recent suicide that has effected me. RIP.
