I saw you the other day. You had a constellation of tears falling down your flushed cheeks. I wanted to help, but my feet felt glued to that cold spot on the ground. If I wanted to sound nice and totally in love, I would say something like, "Even with the tears, you still looked beautiful." But I'm here to be fucking honest. You looked like shit. You looked so fucking broken that every atom in my body just wanted to hold you close. But I didn't. I stood there like the fucking coward I am and watched you destroy yourself even fucking more. The next day you wore long sleeves. And I could say, "it was tragically beautiful." But why the fuck would I say that? How broken would you have to be to turn and change your emotional pain into physical scars. They aren't beautiful, they're fucking terrible. I won't romanticize something that is as awful as mutilating your own, beautiful skin. Beautiful skin is a joke. Beautiful skin is only in movies and shows. But you should treat your, scared, freckled, colored, inked, pale soft, leathery skin like a home. Keeping your organs inside and safe from destruction and harshness of the outside world. Treat yourself as a flower in a meadow. Your one of a billion but you have your own pattern. None of this is beautiful. It's only reality of the harsh, judgmental wild were in today. I will not tell you that there will be nothing better than the sweet relief of death. Because it may take your pain away, but I will be left here in a cold monsoon of despair and depression. I will be left here thinking "Why the fuck did I not do all I could to save you." If anything, I will be hurt. you would've left my life so suddenly and I can't imagine taking a breath of oxygen knowing that I'm still fucking here and you aren't. What am I supposed to do without you?
