Poem by Saoirse Jane Donnelly
You tell me your nephew was depressed,
That his suicide has succumbed a grief engulfing mess.
You’re on the look out for a new black dress,
In the confinements of the car you allow yourself to confess.
You tantalise yourself looking for invisible signs,
Fantasise that he let you read his mind.
Malediction towards those who didn’t listen,
Resenting those who believe his pain was fiction.
Maybe comprehension would have prevented your nephew being found dead in the kitchen.
Lamenting the preparation of passing out his eulogy like a leaflet,
The admittance that his suffering wasn’t a secret.
The acceptance that you had noticed the facade slip.
The acknowledgment that digressing with wit,
Does not make you anymore well equipped.
The pain still persists.
No matter how hard you try and resist.
Once an optimist, now converted to a pessimist.
Haunted by his massacred wrists,
You close your frail hands into a tight fist.
The conversation begins to drift…
You say we would have gotten along,
That we listen to the same songs,
That his non existence makes life feel wrong.
An autopsy performed on a life that should have been long.
Strangers sharing secrets,
The burden is not one easy to omit.
I know for now the wounds are deep but
In these moments you let his legacy transmits.
I hope you know you do not need to plead forgiveness.
You are not to blame merely a witness,
The grief is everlasting and
It is proof on love’s persistence.
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