apology

i think it was your brother
that told me
how you nearly killed yourself

but i spent a while 
hidden in the knowledge
of your pain
as if i could have somehow known
before he told me
so that i might protect myself from the heavy wall
of shuddering grief
at the simple possibility of your nonexistence

i sat on your floor
the scratchy carpet by your bed 
dug into my pale knees
pressing pink spots
into my skin

you handed me a book
in silence
about a horse
and a mole
and a fox
and a boy

your mother had given it to you
alongside a piece of paper
now crumpled in the corner of the room
detailing how you might choose
not to take your own life
the next time the feeling struck

the book's illustrations were beautiful
and the message was very touching
saying to you
what your parents
thought you needed to hear
and apparently could not tell you 
directly

maybe it did help you

but it felt like 
to me at least
that these few things
this sullen, objective acknowledgement
might have only served
to isolate you further

branding you dismissively
as their cross to bear

i felt sick.
wanted so badly to take you away
and hold you in fondness

to show you
in no uncertain terms
your family's loyalty and devotion
beyond paper,
and stranger's words

but i was afraid 
that to do so
i would have to lay all the hurt
out in front of me

so i cleaned your room
organized the clothes in your dresser
slept at the foot of your bed

hung on your every movement so that you would know
i love and miss and need you
without me ever actually having to say it

which i think
makes me just as bad
as them