The Crash

Just a little vent/kinda poem about a grieving a friend who passed.

What if he never got in that car?
What if, when we told him that it’s not safe, he listened? What if he was treated better throughout his too-short 15 years of life, so he wouldn’t have to do unsafe things just to feel acknowledged by a “cool upperclassman” and “finally fit in.”
What if he was still here, still laughing, still playing, still rowing, maybe even getting his permit soon. What if the thing he loved most hadn’t betrayed him, the cars he’d admired for years, photographed millions of times, dreamt about with friends, hadn’t ended up crashed.
What if we never had to see those horrible photos, he never had to be a news story, and never had to be talked about in the wrong tense-the past one. What if he was still here?
What if he never got in that car?

Author's Note

Writing is my way of grieving, and although I’m not really good at it, I’m trying to get better. Feedback is appreciated.
Note-If you can relate to the overthinking and all the “what ifs” that comes with grief, I’m sorry.