I’ve been mad at the world since she last left.
Still trying to figure out how to process my moms death. Screaming for help but the anger sits inside, and we all try to fight it, hide it a little longer, hoping we won’t break.
Trying to process how she left, knowing she cleaned the house, wrote her goodbyes and left them to be found. She had a story, an escape to keep everyone from worrying.
Laid down, deep breath and thought “this is it”
And I’ve been so mad at the world ever since. Suicide in the evening is something I’ve been beating my heart with, trying to figure out how you did it.
Instead of walking into see you with your coffee, they walked into find your body, nothing sits well with death in the morning.
I’m still trying to process my moms death.