Creative Writing, woo hoo!

This is in my xanga, too, but I figured, What the heck? Might as well be cool and put it in here, too.

I wrote this for creative writing. I guess I'll share it. (The assignment was to write about a difficult letter to deliver, basically.)

So much black, my eyes can't handle it. I feel like I'm sinking into my own despair. Sitting in the front row, I get hundreds of glances showing sadness and, even worse, pity. I look back to the front, and my eyes unwillingly stay at his picture. I tear them away as tears begin to swell up in my eyes. Maybe if I can get them away from the picture, I can force him out of my memory, too.
The preacher speaks uncomforting words. His aunt sings a horrible song; it is worsened only by her voice full of tears. His mother falls to the floor with sobs more wretched and hopeless than I have ever heard. His father cries silently on the pew a few people over from me.
I cannot cry. I cannot think. I cannot feel. As I sit here, numb to all emotion, I am screaming in my head. Screaming that I want to hate him for leaving me. I then whisper my apology, saying I could never, ever hate him. I scream that we were supposed to get married. I whisper that I'll never love again, that my heart lies with him in that coffin.
His father lifts my arm. The worst part is coming -- going to that cemetery where he will be forever. Going to that cemetery that will haunt me always. Going to that cemetery where a chunk of my soul will roam till the end.
The silence in the car is deafening. I stare out the window, yet notice nothing. His father touches my hand; I cannot look at him. I walk between him and his desolate wife to the plot. I almost feel bonded to him at this moment: neither of us wanting to cry, wanting to admit this is real; both of us praying to wake up and see his shaggy hair, his hazel eyes, his crooked grin, his childish dimples at least one last time.
I am sitting, watching, waiting. As he -- no, that box, is lowered into the ground, the people sing a song of hope. I want to take away everything that has any importance to them and destroy it, then sing a hopeful song to them, rubbing it in, making them feel pain as I feel now.
Everyone is leaving. His father approaches me, lays his hand on my shoulder, and a tear falls onto my face. "I just want to say goodbye," I rasp out, almost inaudibly. I still could not meet his eyes. I hear gasping, choking breaths behind me as he half carries his wife back to the car. I then force myself to go to his grave.
I collapse to my knees, now unable to stop the constant flow of bitter tears. Screaming, out loud, I lift my eyes to the gray, cloudy heavens, wondering why this happened. I cry until my eyes are dry. I have never before wept tears so acidic.
Pulling a letter from my pocket, I unfold it so I can read it to him.
"This is the hardest letter I've ever had to write. You will never fathom the grief I feel. Grief isn't even a strong enough word, but I'm at a loss for a better one.
"How could you leave me like this, so broken and alone? I love you more deeply than I had ever thought possible. I love you more deeply than any woman has ever loved any man. You are my life; how can I possibly go on living without you?
"So many unfinished plans for our future. Marriage, kids, growing old together -- do you think I'll ever be able to let go enough to share those joys with another man? Another man... the words seem almost to be something I shouldn't say, something I shouldn't have had to say. Ever. If only I had one wish... I would've stopped you from leaving my house that night. Will I ever be able to forgive myself for not preventing you?
"Oh, God, let me forgive, let me heal, and possibly later move on. God, be my strength. Both of you, please, just please be with me always."
I could no longer stay on my knees. Lying on the ground next to his grave, I whispered, "I love you," and cried once more.