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.