Slit wrists and blood spilled
they will say she was too young.
the will say she had so much life.
they will say she was smart and talented.
they will say she was happy.
they will say they just spoke to her,
they just saw her,
they just waved hello.
they will say they remembered her from a child,
they will say they are shocked,
shouldn’t they have seen the signs?
shouldn’t they have prayed for her more?
did anyone know her pain?
was it always cloudy, did it ever stop raining for her?
slit wrists and blood spilled.
the residue of what once flowed in her body is dried up on her bedsheets
i can hear her voice, and thinking back, i saw her pain.
and blood spilled everywhere.
did they listen when she cried out?
did they hear her? really hear her?
when she smiled, did they continue to ask how she was doing?
there is blood everywhere,
her pain is spilled out on white sheets.
her joy is but a memory covered with red blood stains of what ifs and we should have done more.
how will they move on knowing that it ended with
is she free?
if she is who are they to say she is wrong?