Featured Poet - Andrew Farrow

WHISPERS BEHIND CLOSED DOORS

It’s spoken in half-murmurs,

behind closed doors,

where people speak of someone misunderstood

in hushed tones,

as if their name might summon the truth

they don’t want to face.

They cloak the pain in euphemisms,

pretend their suffering was a puzzle

that could’ve been solved.

If only they had spoken louder,

if only they had seen the signs—

they weren’t ready to believe.

But the truth is raw,

ugly in its honesty,

and society’s eyes still flinch

when faced with the weight

of someone’s truth.

They turn away from the depth,

make myths of despair and distress,

saying you “gave up,”

as if your soul was weak,

as if that struggle was a choice

you made lightly—

a moment of indulgence

in brutal, darkest despair.

They don’t understand

that you fought battles no one saw,

that even in your silence

there was a war raging,

a firestorm swallowing you whole.

The stigma is a second loss,

a quiet shame hanging in the air

after you have gone.

They’d rather talk about you

than to you.

If you were still here,

still reaching for understanding,

in search of hope’s light – 

humanity lives in a world

that fears what it cannot fix.

But your story is not a cautionary tale,

nor an afterthought whispered with guilt.

You were a human,

a drifting, lost soul - not just a headline,

not just a statistic.

And though they hide behind their eyes,

the fear remains,

etched in the spaces

where compassion should be.

Afraid to admit

how close we all stand

to the same edge

you fell from.

ABOUT THE POEM: This is not a poem of judgment, but of stigma. It reflects on the silence, the whispers, and the uneasy distance society still places around suicide - turning grief into something hidden, when compassion is what’s needed most.

THE HOLLOW SOUND OF GOODBYE

It wasn’t supposed to end this way -

a final note inked in silence,

scrawled across the spaces

where your voice once lived.

They’ve screamed into the void you left,

but it only echoes back

with a guttural grief,

a howl they cannot swallow.

Your absence isn’t clean;

it’s jagged -

an unrelenting thing that tears through their chest

each time your loved ones think

they’ve done grieving.

You took the light,

plunged them into a darkness they couldn’t reach,

and now you’ve left them groping through the ruins,

for pieces of your breath, your smile, your laugh,

the way you said the names of those you loved.

They search for blame in shadows,

in the cold nights where you must have stood,

alone and holding despair

like a loaded gun,

waiting for the quiet end.

What was it that they missed?

The fractures, the tremors in your voice - like aftershocks of a life unravelling,

while they turned away

for just a moment too long.

Now, every breath they take feels borrowed,

and your loved ones may choose to curse

the weight of surviving

when you chose not to.

There’s no beauty in this grief,

no catharsis in the loss,

just this gaping silence,

a lifelong scream

that may never find release.

ABOUT THE POEM:  This is not a poem of blame, but of aftermath. It is a reflection on the silence and rupture left by suicide—the unbearable absence, the unanswered questions, and the lingering ache of those who must carry on.