When you were alive you didn’t matter to me.
You were there and that was fine.
When you died I didn’t cry for you.
The mistake wasn’t mine.
But when I saw your face be covered, and family mourn for you,
I wondered if it was possible to turn back the hands of time.
I started to go crazy, trying to make it all fit,
If only I had treated you differently, instead of another item on my list.
Would it have changed your fate? Would I have been able to help you stay?
Would you have changed? Did you deserve to have them take you away?
To live without closure is worse than knowing for sure,
To have to constantly guess, “what if” keeps doubt right outside my door.
If I could say one thing to you, I would ask to know you better,
Then my feelings of anguish and sadness would be worth a little more.
Then the loss would be so much greater, and I could justify my anger.
Then the feelings of grief and confusion would be OK to say,
They would understand the part of me that died when your life was taken away.
Then it would be OK to long for you to tell me “it’s OK.”
But as it stands I wallow in my thoughts and godless prayers,
And wonder if you ever truly knew I cared.
It is another milestone, another day to mourn,
And I cannot feel anything. I’m empty and alone.
I can however think of you and wonder what you’d say
If I ever had got a chance to tell you, I would have died for you that day.