Suicide is hard work—
it’s building a house
out of invisible bricks
then blaming yourself
for the wind.

The leaving is easy—
you leave behind
an empty bag
made out of all the things
they should have said
should have helped with
should have known better
and do something about.

Someone finds the bag—
hangs on to it
thinks it’s their fault
the bag is so empty—
thinks if they had been better
louder or quieter
tried to be more open
not hold back
been more like a door
than a thick wall.

They carry it anyway—
this sad sack of maybes
and might-have-beens—
like it’s a map to a place
they can never find—
but it’s not
it’s just a bag—
a miserable empty bag.