At the End

She’s been hurt and she’s broken,
And she’s dealt with far too much
Most of it is her fault though,
For letting people in, and such.

In a room crowded with people,
She should feel anything but alone.
She should be happy and carefree,
Not wishing she were at home.

People walk by her all the time,
No one ever has anything to say.
People may make small talk,
But do they really see her? No way.

Some days she wants to be by herself.
Some days she wants a friend.
Some days she can manage a smile.
Some days she just wants it to end.

She thought the pills would do it.
Or the razor, the rope, or the fall.
But the gun is what saved her
From problems and them all.

Everyone will be at her funeral
Rosaries will be said and shared.
And she’ll be looking up from Hell
At them all pretending they cared.