'Isn't it Ironic. 
how we cut and kill flowers 
because we think they're beautiful. 
but we cut and kill ourselves
because we think we're not.'
---------------------------------------------------------
'I'm not the one to hold hands, but baby, when you told me you wanted to die, I held your hand so tight that the bones in my wrist molded and the muscles in my arms seized so I'd never let go. I'm not the one to know pain, but the night you said "sorry" for every pill you took, I saw a darkness in your eyes you didn't want there. I felt the walls of my skull caving in because I watched you drowning yourself in sorrows you could not suppress anymore. I'm not the  one to know hurt, but every time you looked up to me with those bloodshot eyes I knew there was an earthquake Annihilating the best parts of you. And I'm not the one to feel depressed but when the aftershock rattled your brain and that gun looked like the answer, for the first time I hated natural disasters. I used to think that nature taking the world back was beautiful, but she took back and that was anything, but beautiful. I'm not the one to wear black, but when they held your funeral, it felt right to wear the color of the gun powder that was left around your lips. I'm not the one to cry, but baby, when I was cleaning out your room, I found a letter addressed to me, I opened it. I didn't expect you to write about the empty pill bottles.... I didn't expect you to write about how you loved me and baby, I'm sorry I never had the change to tell you, I love you too. Maybe I could've saved you.'