On Christmas Eve I was talking to my brother

It was 2:30 in the morning

We had both been drinking.

I read him one of my poems.

That one about surviving myself.

It sparked a conversation.

The tough kind.

About suicide.

I told him I truly believed most people

Dont WANT to die

They just want the pain to stop

I told him it was a cry for help.

He told me my first attempt was not.

He said with tears rolling down his cheeks

"You were done that night."

With tears now streaming down my cheeks I replied

"I can't talk about this. Not tonight."

"I know." He cried

"Did you ever get help after that night? After seeing me like that? Did you talk to someone?"

"I couldnt talk about it. It was too hard."

At this point we're both bawling.

I wrapped my arms around him.

I apologized.

See that's the thing about attempting suicide and surviving.

If you're lucky enough

To survive

You have to witness the pain everyone around you feels.

Because of you.

I never use to think it was selfish.

Not until Christmas Eve.

I broke my brother.

6 years ago.

And he's still haunted.

You have never been worthy of the love I gave to you -
I will love myself til I don't miss yours anymore.