On finding my father dead in an empty house

I remember, like the catchy pop song that you hate,
me at 4, 5 years old, waiting for my dad on the porch.
I remember the hugs,
the beard,
the beach,
the camping,

the sudden silence,

the locked door,
the cuts on my small wrists,
the depression,
the untouched food on his dish,
the play pretend that my grandma wanted to make us all act.

I remember me going away, shaving my head,
not making friends, skipping school,
smoking.
I remember it like a good time.
Better than this.
Now,
when the christmas arrives, i don't want no more, no more dinner.
When i sit on the couch, I know he'll walk in another room.
When i look at the future i see the same that he had.
Finding my dead father, in a room that smells nothing like me, nothing like him, nothing like a father. Nothing.

What will i do?
Will i even cry, if most of the tears were caused by him being alive?

Will i ever try to open the locked door?
Will i ever break the silence that rests, untouched, from years?
Will i ever look at my wrists, not carving to see if there's an Happy Me inside them?
Will i take medicines?
Will i eat?
Will i pretend that this,
will never hurt me at all?

Reviews

[Joshua Carl Cruz]

drew me to a place i do not wish to return to. i hope anyone needing release reads this and knows there are people who suffer too. good poem very good