I trusted your name,
So You never killed me,
Never I did either.
What do you have to say ?
Yes,
I killed you.
And I made you suffer.
I was 15,
you were same,
I watched your eyes...
And mine in rain,
I am sorry if
You were in pain ,
my brother ..
you felt that never,
Your eyes were numb,
Nothing that now ,
That makes me better.
I killed you,
my brother...
I was looking at you,
But you were not,
I am not sure if
I missed you a lot.
There was no blood ,
No body.
If you were in fear..
Waiting there,
All in the woods
Staring stairs,
Had I come down then .....
You would not starve then,
Would you have still waited , then?
What do I do now?
Where have you gone .
You killed me ,my brother,
As you made me suffer ,
From the pain you dealt me
I will never be better.
I wrote this poem as a reflection on guilt and the weight of an unchangeable past. The "killing" isn't physical—it's something deeper, an abandonment or a failure that feels just as irreversible. There was no blood, no body, yet the loss was real. The repetition of "my brother" makes it personal, but whether he was real or a part of myself is left unanswered. Could I have done something differently? Would it have changed anything? I don’t know. What I do know is—I will never be better.
