The morning after you died, I woke up.
I had school that day, but I didn’t go.
I decided I needed a mental health day.
I didn’t talk to anyone and I slept until 3PM.

The morning after you died, my mom tried to live.
She had enormous bags under her eyes, weighing her down.
She walked into the bathroom and splashed herself.
She had been crying, which made it hard to tell where the tears stopped and the water began.

The morning after you died, my sister went shopping.
She needed to heal the pain somehow, I guess.
She bought new clothes and got a haircut, claiming she needed some change.
She didn’t say much, which is how I knew she was hurting.

The morning after you died, my dad got up for work like usual.
           

He went on with life, pretending like everything was normal.
He kissed my mom’s forehead goodbye and reassured her that everything would be okay.
He told the dog to take care of me, but even she was sad.

The morning after you died, no one knew how to go on.
They sat around and each person could feel the tension and the sadness.
They all wondered how any of us would ever get through this and the truth is, we still haven’t.
They all drifted along that day, going through life’s motions, but not really living.

Today, it’s been a month since you died,
And I still wake up,
And my mom still cries,
And my dad still goes to work,
And my sister’s still quiet,
And we still don’t know how to go on.

And none of us have really lived, since you died trying.