It's Not a Game

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Why do I talk about people?
It's like a game here.
Whoever can talk the worst gets the big laugh.
You feel bad then, really bad.
You think they won't find out.
But that big laugh becomes a repeat as they tell the others, and then eventually it gets back to them.
I'm not the only one that talks about them, and I'm not the only one they hear say it either.
I wonder if I'm the last straw, the last nerve, the worst one.
What if I am the one that makes them go home at night and regret their life.
It's not a game anymore then.
What is it?
A funeral?
A missing report?
It's a suicide that I could have prevented by not talking.
Could have
I could have been the one they laughed at.
I could have been the first one they heard.
Maybe it wasn't even me, but when their gone, who will know?
Maybe their best friend, maybe their parents.
Maybe no one, but maybe I could know by not talking.
I could know that I'm safe and I didn't cause their pain, instead I was just one less person they had to worry about hurting them.





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