Home.

You killed yourself, I didn’t know you, but you killed yourself.

You had the courage to embrace the darkness inside you, I didn’t know you,

but I do know that.

“Poor boy” they’ll say, but there will still be some of us who will envy you;

you found your way out of this place.

I didn’t know you, but I do know him.

He just spent these two weeks locked in his room regretting not calling you that morning.

I didn’t know you, but he tells me he loved you, so hard it killed you;

so hard it killed both of you.

Now they’re all talking about you, changing their profile picture to one where they’re with you,

writing sad letters you’re never going to read, they all draw your name on their wrists;

he cut your name out of his wrists, I am so sure of it.

I didn’t know you, most of them didn’t either, but they pretend they did,

it’s been two weeks and they still write status updates about you,

they make me wonder when are they going to stop telling nice lies about you,

when are they going to go back to homophobic mode,

when are they going to admit they think it’s their fault.

He hasn’t come to school yet, he hasn’t changed his profile picture, or his Facebook status,

I start to worry about him. I didn’t know you, so I can’t miss you, but I miss him.

Once in the lower corner of my Math’s book he wrote your name,

he draw two tiny boys holding hands and a ‘someday’ in between,

he said you were a keeper.

I guess you just couldn’t keep yourself though laughter and intolerance,

I guess you couldn’t keep yourself in this closed-doors small town we once called home.

After Renee Schminkey's  “Pine City”.