two years ago,

my mom talked to me about

a son

of her friend.

 

she had detailed the struggle

and hopelessness that 

strangled and

gnarled his bones until he

could no longer move without feeling like

the world was crushing him.

 

and two years ago, 

i had tried to find him

because i could relate.

 

Yesterday,

my mom talked to me about

a son

of her friend.

 

she had detailed the heroin.

the overdose.

the hope that only an addiction can bring

and a needle can satisfy. 

 

and yesterday,

i had found him.

not because i could relate,

but because it was too late

and social media dictates that

even though he was a fucked up

addict that had no one to help him,

everyone still makes statuses praying for him,

saying how sorry they were that he had to go,

telling us what a great man he was. 

 

maybe we should realize that what we say now

to commemorate the boy who found

solace in 

the medication of reality,

should have been said

two years ago

when 

it felt like 

the sunlight was ripped from his bones

and there were no flowers left to notice.