Not one day goes by when I don't think of you.
Your depression.
The way you tried to commit suicide.
It all happens again, and again.
To four of my closest friends.
They try to die.
When will it be my turn?
My canvas is my wrist.
My paint is a razor blade.
But, I don't dare touch the brush, for I know I will depress everyone, in doing so.
I lay awake at four a.m.
I contemplate why I'm still here.
Then, I remember.
I remember all the good times I had.
I remember why people love me.
I remember why I don't have scars.
I remember how I felt so helpless.
Trying to fix you.
I knew for a while that you were broken.
I just couldn't bring myself to return you.
And when I read your poems, I sense the ache.
I sense the pain.
I have it, too.
We all do.
I hope.
I hope that when I go to school, day after day, that I won't hear your name on the announcements.
A constant struggle.
A tug of war.
Battling between what I feel, and what I know.
One day, I will be gone.
And you will feel just as helpless as I do.
