He jumped from the 22nd floor and landed head first,
wearing the only pajamas that reminded him of home.
His last call was a plea to a friend to come over and share a bottle of beer with him.
“Sorry I have something else planned tonight” was the friend’s only reply.
There was no letters, no final messages, no broken things.
Only unopened bottles and haunting silence.
No one really knew.
But we knew, aren’t we?
We count other people’s failures like freckles on their face.
Laugh at her deformed ears,
We mock her on the way she stutters and smiled at his defeat.
We stared like spectators from a glass cage,
whispered as if uttering a curse.
And you say, “how sad it is to live like you.”
“.. to live like you…”
Aren’t we all but damn murderers?