I would tell you how empty it was,
how five people were scattered around the hole in the ground,
but only two really cared,
but I can't.

I would tell you how long it took me to get there,
how tears stung my darkened eyes
as my black heels sunk into the softened dirt.
And I would tell you about the sadness I saw in everyone's eyes that day,
but I can't.

I would tell you how I missed him,
how he was so kind,
how he was always there for me,
how he didn't deserve what came to him,
but I cant.

I would tell you how much it rained,
or what day it was,
or how small the gravestone had been,
but I can't.

Because he was not kind,
he was never there,
there was no sadness,
and I don't know if he deserved it.
Maybe he did,
maybe all the pain he caused finally caught up to him.

Because I didn't count how many people were there,
I didn't wear black heels,
and I don't know what day it was.
I didn't go.
I didn't see the headstone,
or how they cried.
How they shed tears for their tormentor because now,
they had missed him.

I would tell you I didn't want to go,
but I can't.
I would tell you that I had a choice,
but I didn't.

I just stayed home,
staring at the ceiling
while they held an empty funeral.