She hung herself when the only friend she had turned on her.

She hung herself and her killers laughed.

She hung herself when she once sang and danced.

She hung herself and her memory was dashed with attention.

She hung herself when so many others had not.

She hung herself when the world stayed silent.

Bullying, they say. And they wear pink shirts and wear purple bands. And the world has opened its eyes, because people have died, more than one—too many.

And finally, the cruelty of the young has flipped itself over, exposed its belly with gleaming eyes. And finally, the world speaks.

People speak.

Now. Change. They want it. They cry. And howl. They stomp in outrage, and mutter with venom. Because they want justice, because students, innocent students, have become murderers.

And I think, think back to when I clung on, when "bullying" seemed too small a word, and a by-product of life—tearful nights and emptiness—

They are so late.

Maybe I should have committed suicide earlier.