By Wanda McAulay
Unbeknownst to you is the pain that I feel,
The pain of your memory, from my head to my heel.
You took your own life when it was not yours to take,
leaving me, your sister, with your story to fake.
I ate and consumed the sadness and shame, then the
anger took over, leading to blame.
That blame felt like mine for so many years,
untreated, unspoken just silence and tears.
Your name leaves a hole in my heart when spoken,
not forgetting the friends you left who are still
broken.
In two, are you parents who now just exist,
together, yet separate, a way to subsist.
We speak not of you anymore, for it causes distress,
forty-two, a child, a wife, you left us this mess.
I know you struggled, felt alone and in the dark,
if only you could see that your life had a spark.
Lurking inside all of us is the seed of defeat,
but forward we go with remembrance and conceit.
My compassion has gone, and my heart is now steel
Unbeknownst to you, is the pain that I feel.