I didn’t mean
for it to end—
not like this,
not my best friend.
The anger came,
too fast, too loud.
Now I dig
and whisper proud.
We laughed that night,
like always did—
talked of dreams
and stupid kids.
But I held hurt
behind my grin—
a thousand cuts
he’d sliced within.
He didn’t know
how deep they went,
how words can bruise,
how time gets spent.
One glass too much,
a shove, a shout—
and all those ghosts
came pouring out.
I saw the fear
flash in his eyes,
too late to stop,
too late for "why’s."
"I’m sorry"
won’t bring him back.
But still,
I say it
to the cracks.
The ground is cold,
my hands are red.
And silence speaks
where he once said:
"You’re my brother,
through it all."
Now I just
recall the fall.
No court, no cell
can cage me in—
just memory,
and what has been.
Took a lot out of me to write this out of a friend's experience
