Your life was a constant
staring contest
with the barrel of a gun,
or bottle of pills,
or whatever it may be.
I don't think you ever
truly believed
things would get better.
I think they all forced it down
your throat.
Endless strings of letters
and numbers
configuring into
teen suicide statistics
and muttering
fine
and okay
whenever needed.
I thought you were nice,
despite your negative outlook
on life.
I'd love to hang out with you
again,
even if it is
just to hear you
complain.
I don't know why you
hated the world,
or why your humor
was sicker than you
ever were.
I don't know why
the stars never shone in your eyes,
or why the landing of '69
didn't spark your
everdying interests.
I'm guessing you didn't
either.