once,

you stopped speaking to me

the very next day.

but while i was obsessed

with the thought of you,

i didn't mind april's sinking silence

as i drove her down rocky

roads, tortured terraces and menacing

man-made structures, oblivious to

the obvious.

home sweet home?

not for april;

this girl of enigma.

once i let her out of the car

my brother let me borrow when i

got home with april on my arm,

i should have known. now when i

look back it was blatant to see.

her mind was a turmoil of sunken

sirens, unseen tragic shipwrecks, dragging

her down into a bottomless dungeon.

but even though i could have seen

it coming if i cared enough to

let go of you from my mind,

it was still a tremendous shock

when cuts scarred her corpse,

the blood loss too much.

and april was dead.

by self-inflictions.

by suicide.

her written last words on her crumpled, chilling suicide note were:

love is destruction. obsession is murder.

together is the concoction for death.

april and i, we could have been friends.

we had so much more in common

then our sad crossing of paths, skye.