I hear the word
in the hall
over and over again.
Suicide.
Suicide.
Suicide.
Did he or didn’t he?
Everyone’s got a guess.
Still no one knows for sure,
except Gabe,
but he’s not talking.
Why does it even matter?
He’s gone.
His, ours, theirs—
blame needs a place.
His, ours, theirs—
pain all over the place.
His, ours, theirs—
forgiveness missing from this place.

Author: Lisa Schroeder

I hear the word<br /> in the hall<br />over and over again.<br />Suicide.<br />Suicide.<br />Suicide.<br />Did he or didn’t he?<br />Everyone’s got a guess.<br />Still no one knows for sure, <br />except Gabe, <br />but he’s not talking. <br />Why does it even matter? <br />He’s gone. <br />His, ours, theirs— <br />blame needs a place. <br />His, ours, theirs— <br />pain all over the place. <br />His, ours, theirs— <br />forgiveness missing from this place. - Lisa Schroeder

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