Several years ago, a dear friend of mine decided that the only way out was to kill herself.  It took me a long time to get past it and I found an outlet for my anger in poetry.  This is an old piece and I’ll preface this by saying that I was very upset when I wrote it, but I think it gets the point across of what the people who are left behind think when someone takes this route.

Gunshot.

Body lying limp

like a broken doll

still and forgotten

in a puddle of glistening red

and silence.

That was your answer?

To destroy yourself

in an explosion

of anger

and pain

and regret.

And yet,

there you lie,

still and silent

with the wound of both

the gunshot

and your anguish

neither one healed.