It's been months now but
You still ask around, "Why'd he do it?" like there's no one to blame.

When I entered the house where the ****** took place, I was there for awhile before I felt the extra space. I saw his things. His belongings. His half eaten food. Halfway things he had half the intention to live through. I wasn't aloud upstairs where the body was found. You tell me you were home but you didn't hear the sound. You were tired, didn't hear it fire. Since you slept through the bullet, now you don't sleep at all. Every time you close your eyes you see the bullet hole.
 In an attempt to rest better, you went to the morgue to replace his ****** face with the peaceful one. Funny how angry he always was, this was the first time you'd seen him so calm. Maybe its not a shame that he's dead, maybe the shame is in the way he was living.
So stop asking why he did what he did.
He was just eleven when he brought the gun to his head. He was still a kid when you sent him to heaven.




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She checked every phone, his search history, every conversation looking for a motive and she still can't find what pushed him over the edge. I knew how he'd do it. His fascination in guns was no coincidence. A reason arms do less good and more harm, expetially in the hands of the metally ill. I hope this is a reminder to tell everyone how much you love and appreciate them, he sure didn't hear it enough and you sure can't tell him now.