Bite The Bullet

after it all

My name is Ryan. I died at the age of 16. My mom came home 12 hours after my death. She found me with a gun on her bedroom floor. She found me clutching the last gift she ever gave me. She still cries at night. She cries from sorrow. She cries from guilt. She wishes she could have stayed home that weekend. She wishes she could have done more. Seen more. I am sorry that she misses me so much. For all of you who want to give up on life. Don't. If I had only known that my death would destroy my mom. I thought my friends didn't care about me. Many of them still cry when they think of me. They miss me. They wish they could have said goodbye. They wish they could have been there for me.
The voices are gone. I killed them. But in the process, I killed me. And I will never breath again. I will never laugh or smile again. I am gone. But my memory lives on.
Remember me. Remember Ryan. Not as the girl who killed herself. Not as the girl who gave up. Remember me, Ryan, as the girl who was alone. The girl who didn't bite the bullet, the girl who swallowed it. This is the outcome of mean words. This is the outcome of hate. Remember me. And remember the affect you can have on someone.