Kid

I was just a kid. Too young. Too blind. I didn’t realize how much words could destroy, how much silence could kill. And I hate myself for it. I keep hearing the things I said, over and over, like echoes in my head that never stop. And the thought that won’t leave me is this: if I hadn’t said those words, maybe you’d still be alive. Maybe you’d still be here. And that thought rips me apart every day. You were my friend. You trusted me, and instead, you drowned in silence, and I was too blind to see you sinking. I stood on the shore, watching, laughing, never realizing you were fighting for air. And maybe it was my voice, my words, that pushed you deeper into the water. I wish I could scream the words back into my mouth, tear them out of existence, do anything to undo the damage I caused. But I can’t. I can only live with it, with this shadow that never leaves— the guilt of knowing that maybe my words were part of the reason you’re gone. Now I carry this guilt like chains, heavy, rusted, unbreakable. Every day it drags me down. And no matter how much I scream, it will never bring you back. I’m sorry. I’m so fucking sorry. And sorry will never be enough.