Poem to Promote Safe Driving
You are dead.
I am not.
You should not be dead.
I should be dead.
It’s my fault. My fault I texted on I-79.
Of course, it’s a closed casket today.
No one wants to see.
No.
No one can stand to see you.
Your body the way it is now. Contorted. Shredded like provolone cheese. Your hair dried into your face, ripped of its skin.
No one wants to see that, do they?
I’m the stupid one here, the non-dead one. I want to see.
Want to see the consequence of my idiotic slip up.
I’m the dead one. I wish I wash. You had much to see.
Instead you saw flashing ambulance lights, my tear stained face.
This guilt is worse than death. Death is nice. Wanted. Needed. Necessary. It happens.
This guilt is like a tick you can’t be rid of.
It sucks my blood.
As each day goes by, I become less and less of what I once was.
Your death is the tick.
Sucks the life out of me, yet I keep living.
Oh God, I killed you!
Not by a knife, gun, or some other form of murder.
But by a stupid STUPID text.