I can't afford your death right now.

We gotta schedule somewhere between the next 50 to 60 years

Or maybe we stop being friends. And even then, I still couldn't afford it until the next 20 or so years.
At the least.

A funeral costs about $5000

Your death costs a chunk of my soul
Your death would shatter my mind

I'd spend a lifetime trying to pick up all the broken pieces,
And every time, getting cut by the glass

Your death costs a lifetime of hair dye from going gray before my time

Do you know how many inhalers I'd have fo buy?
I'd forget how to breathe without you

If you died, I'd have to pay more for gas every week
I'd go out of my way not to drive by your house everyday

I'd need to invest in an IV
Something to replenish myself after all the tears

I'd spend a fortune,
Spend a whole lifetime
Trying to get you out of my head

It's like paying someone to remove a stain off my brain
And that **** isnt cheap

So I can't afford your death

But if something does happen to you
And you leave me to handle the bill

I'll have to pay for a bigger coffin
Because I'm just gonna climb in next to you

You were deathly afraid of the dark.

We spent a fortune on night lights and candles

And glow in the dark stickers.

One day I told you, youd never be afraid again.

I went out and dug a whole so deep, light could never touch it

I dug until I could hear or see nothing.

And then I went to get you.

I took your wrist and handcuffed it to mine.

I hoisted you over my shoulder and climbed down to the very bottom.

You screamed. And you cried. So I covered your mouth until you were done.

I told you this would make you brave

Youd never have to fear again

We sat there in silence. I couldnt see you

Could only feel the handcuffs that connected us.

I asked if you were still afraid of the dark.

Imagine my surprise when you said you were afraid of me.

I can't sleep at night.

I think its because I have bad days.

There aren't really bad nights.

There are rough nights, long nights.
Sleepless nights.

But I'm only losing sleep because i'm worried about the day ahead of me.

Theres just something about the time between sun set and sun rise.

That makes me think I need to fix an entire lifetime of mistakes.

I'll spend one short hour of the night, trying to fix 20 problems at once.

Why is finding a solution so time consuming,

When problems jump and multiply as quick as flieas?

I made 100 problems yesterday.
And I'll probably make 100 more today.

That only leaves the time between dusk to dawn

To try and fix some of them

I know that it's a vicious cycle.

But it'll never stop coming.

As long as the sun keeps setting.

I've never had the urge to fit in.

I also don't care much for trying to stand out. Mainly because i've never had to try, it just happens.

I know that people go through life trying to figure our where they belong. But that's never been a worry of mine. I've always known that I will never fit in.

Some might say its like being a black sheep. But it's not.
At least if you're a black sheep, you're still a sheep.

Its more like being a zebra in a world of giraffes.
I'd have to be an idiot to think one day my stripes would turn into spots.

It's not so bad.
Being different.

The hard part is having to explain the difference.

The worst part is explaining and explaining and still being misunderstood.

**** fitting in.
I want to be understood.

People are like puzzle pieces.
They go through life, trying to find the right connection.
And they need that!
They really need that.

 If you can't find the right pieces, then you can't see the big picture.
And if theres no big picture, then how could you really be living?

I don't fit in that puzzle.
Although I'd still like to see how it turns out one day.

I'm more like a checker piece.

Checker pieces don't connect.
They don't make a pretty picture.

I was born deep in thought.
I was born to make moves.

I don't get to fit in and make sense of my life.

My life is a big game
And I spend it wondering why God keeps playing me.

I know I dont fit in.
You know i dont fit in.

But do you understand that I dont fit in?

Life is a big, beautiful piece of art.
So how is it that
I keep spending time drawing you a picture

People try romanticizing outcasts and loners
But what is romance without love?
How could you love me without knowing me?

Do you understand?

You dont have to take a walk in my shoes.
Just understand that you're wearing flip flops while i'm wearing boots.
A walk on the beach will never be the same for us
Im sinking trying to keep up

I don't want to be anyone else but me
Because I know grass isnt greener on the other side.
But I do understand that there is an other side.
Do you?

Or do I need to explain?
Why is it always me who has to explain?

Explain

Explain

Explanation

I don't owe any explanations.

But still, I constantly find myself writing my own instruction manuals for people who skip the directions.

It's as frustrating as trying to teach your grandmother how to use a smart phone.
I love talking to you
But I can't keep showing you how to answer the phone

I'd say we have a bad connection but we hear each other perfectly.
You're just not listening.

I thought we were both speaking English but maybe I'm speaking with some kind of heavy accent
Stop asking me to speak slower.
I don't ask you to listen faster.

Do you understand yet?

You know im an outsider
Im not even asking you to come outside-
Just open up the curtains and take a good look at my reality

You still keep looking in a mirror and mistaking it for the window,
Im asking you to see more than my reflection.

Mirrors are tricky.
They make things a little backwards
 
?dnatsrednu uoy oD
?dnatsrednu uoy oD

Words are expensive.

I think on some level, almost everyone knows this.
But at the same time, we also dont know this.

And that's because we're taught this without knowing we were taught this.

"Watch your mouth."
"Change your tone."
"If you dont have anything nice to say, dont say anything at all"
"Words hurt"

Words hurt.
Words hurt.
Words hurts.

Sticks and stones may break my bones
And you can bet your *** that words hurt me

Words are important
But I say that words are expensive,
Simply because... they are.

If you don't believe me,
Think about the biggest secret you have

Now think about what it'll cost you to let it go.
Think about who it'll cost you.

If words weren't expensive, we'd tell all our secrets.
We'd talk about our biggest fears.
We'd shout out all of our dreams.

But most people can't do that...
The price is just too high.

Words are expensive.
And what makes it even worse is we don't even know the cost of them, until it's already been spoken.

I'm usually a quiet person.
I always have been. As a child, I was especially quiet compared to other children.

People mistook me for being shy.
Truthfully, I was afraid of my mouth writing checks that I knew I couldnt cash.

Im quick witted.

Sometimes I feel like my tongue is in a race with my thoughts.

Too many times I have spoken words that bought me nothing but instant regret.

Being careless with your words is like swiping a credit card and convincing yourself you'll never have to pay the bill

I've always tried to be careful with what I say
Its part of the reason I prefer to write.

At least when I write down my thoughts, I know the only thing i've bought is the pen and paper.

And maybe you're reading this right now
And you already know how expensive words can be.
Maybe you've spent those words, swiped that credit card
And now you've bought so much regret that youre drowning in the debt

But if you're reading this and are foolish enough to think that you're never paying for your words,

I dare you to ask yourself these questions:

If you could put a price on words, how much would they be?

Would you charge per word?
Or do you prefer to buy in bulk, and charge by the sentence?

Would some words be more expensive than others?

How much would it cost to say the word love?
How much would it cost to say hate?
Would you say those words more often?
Would you say them less?

Would you save up your money and speak only on special occasions?

What if you had to pay for every word you've ever written,
Every word you've ever typed?

Would you keep posting comments?
Would you stop using hashtags?

Think about it
Think about freedom of speech
And if it's ever been free

Every petty argument you've ever had
Every unnecessary comment ever spoken
Every joke at someone else's expense

Would you buy it?

Can you imagine spending all your money on gossip?
Can you imagine being too poor to say you need help?

Would you still speak your mind?
Would you speak slower?
Taking time to think about each word before you said the next

Think about the next thing you'll say.
And who you're saying it to.
And who ever else is around to hear it

Is it worth it?

Like I said, i'm very careful with my words.
Not just with what I say
But how i say it.

Im not asking you these questions.
I'd like you to ask them to yourself

I can't ask

I don't know the answers

Besides,
Who am I to put a price on someone else's words?

I can't tell you the cost of your words.

But I can tell you that there is a price.

Even if someone else is paying for it.

I'm typically very quiet.
But I took a risk and spoke today.

You'll finish reading this

And depending on what you think
Depending on how you feel
Will determine how much this costs me.

I've saved up my voice enough
I think I can afford to say all this

If I could just look in my pockets for some change,
And be able to buy some last words
Let me end on this:

I've said a lot about words.

But it's just as important to listen.

If you think of how much words are worth,

How much are people spending,
Just to talk to you?

Often, I find myself thinking about all the people who I no longer speak to. I’m constantly lost in thought over every person who I will never see again.
I think about the best friend I had in preschool, the school nurse who made me a better person. I think about the two old women who were always waiting at the bus stop in front of my house. It’s not as if they died but it has been years since we’ve seen each other and I don’t know if we will ever meet again.

Sometimes I’ll watch T.V. and an old show will be on; a show that’s been off the air for years now. I like to watch the last season of those shows. It will occasionally take the audience back to a character that hasn’t been seen since the first season. Maybe it’ll even mention what they’ve been up to, who they are now.

When I was a kid, I used to think of my life in seasons. I used to keep an eye out for old friends. I used to find joy in running into a former algebra teacher. Or my brother’s childhood best friend. It felt like things were tying themselves up into a neat, little bow.

But I’m starting to think life doesn’t work that way.

I’m always looking for these people who I will probably never see again. I’ve gone on long walks, purely concentrated on remembering the last name of my favorite bus driver. I’m thinking about everyonet all day long.
I think about all the places I’ve been without realizing that I have been there for the last time. The pediatrics department of my doctors office. The Treasure Island hotel in Las Vegas that I have not stayed at since I was 7.

I think about all the moments in my life, big or small. that shaped the person I am today without even realizing they were those moments.

I’ve always had a bad perception of time. I’ve never been able to sit down somewhere and tell the difference between an hour passing by compared to five minutes.

But that perception is not limited to numbers on a clock. It is not just a matter of figuring out the time. It is a matter of staying in the right time.

I’m 22 but I was just eleven years old yesterday. I was walking home from school. It was 4 O’clock on a cloudy Friday. When I walked in the door, my brother was watching Family Guy and started to tell me about his day. Now that same brother has a wife and two children and lives eight hours away from me.

I’m 22 years old. I’m single, no children. The other day I was driving down the street and my mind jumped ahead to a day in the future where this car will no longer be around. The engine will be dead, the parts will be scrapped, and I’ll have two kids and a wife. I’ll be driving down the street with car seats in the backseat of my minivan. And I’ll see a Toyota Camry parked on a street somewhere.

I’ll think that today, right now, was such a long time ago.

Sometimes I look at my parents and I think about them in their twenties. I see them as the same age that I am. I wonder if we would have been friends.

I once picked up my niece while she was napping and carried her to bed. I laid her down, took her shoes off, and pulled a blanket up over her. I tried to picture her as a sixteen year old. I tried to picture this little person, who comes up and asks to open playdough, will still want to talk to me.
My nephew is only two. He’s a verbal late bloomer. I think about the times he will someday come home from school and tell me about his day. Or maybe he will be just as quiet as he is now.

I think I might be a time traveler. I’m always all over the place.

The other day I pulled off the freeway and onto the side of the road. I broke down into gasping sobs because my uncle had died. He passed away when I was 16. I think that was the first time I realized he was never coming home again.I think that was the first time I ever cried for him.  

Time is tricky. People say I have an old soul but maybe I just have old eyes. Maybe that’s why I’m stressing out on a mortgage bill that’s due on a house that I’m not even close to owning yet.
The other day, I had felt this deep sadness all day long. People kept asking me what was wrong but I thought it would have been silly to say that once, when I was 6 years old, my mother bought me a balloon at a park and it floated away and I’m still upset over it.

People aren’t like seasons. One day they’re here, the next they’re gone.
People aren’t like anything else around.
When it’s been sunny for awhile, I always know it will rain again, eventually. When I plant a tree, I know it’ll either grow. Or it’ll die. I won’t just look outside one day at a tree that has run away from home.
I don’t know if I’ll see certain people again.
I don’t know what has happened or what might happened.

Time has always been a tricky thing for me.

I try to make constants in my life.

Little anchors that let me know that this life is still my life.
Like when you see a silver car in a parking lot with a bunch of other silver cars, and you can still somehow recognize which one is your car.

I like to drink coffee. I always have.

It’s one of my constants. I drank coffee throughout my childhood and I drink coffee now.
I probably always will.
On the mornings when I shockingly have nothing to do, I like to make myself a big *** of coffee. It doesn’t matter if I’m at home or not. I’ve made coffee in hotel rooms, I’ve made coffee in ex lovers apartments. Even if it is not very good coffee.

My 8 year old hands hold onto the coffee mug, letting it’s warmth seep through my entire body. I’ll sit down, close to a window somewhere.
My 22 year old eyes taking in all the sites. I have drank coffee on windy fall mornings. I’ve drank coffee in a motel right next to the beach. I like to watch the waves hit the water. I like to watch joggers jog by the house.
I like to drink my coffee and look outside at my grandchildren playing in the backyard.

My one, true constant.

I’ll take a sip from that coffee, from whenever I am. And I’ll start to think about all the people I have seen for the last time.

And all the ones I have met to meet for the first time.

I’m suicidal.

Guys, I don’t get to say this too often without it being a hypothetical, BUT... I’m suicidal.

Did you hear me in the back? Did they hear me outside? Do you want me to say it louder?

I’M SUICIDAL!

Again? Do you want me to say it again?

I’m just messing with you guys! I know you don’t want me to say it.

I’m not an idiot. I can see you cringe and squirm in your seat. Don’t worry. I got you guys. I won’t say it too much.

I’ll prove it to you.

Let’s calm down for a second here. Take a deep breath. Get comfortable. This is not a public service announcement. This isn’t some after school special. I’m not a preacher nor do I ever plan to preach to you.

But I’m suicidal.

No one likes to hear it… So just give me a chance to prove it.

I’m already proving it in a way. Because as a suicidal person, I learned that I’m not allowed to talk about it. As a suicidal person, it’s like saying a ***** word.

Not a ***** word like **** or *****. ****. ******.

But it makes people feel *****.

When suicide is mentioned, I can see people rub their arms. They scratch the back of their neck. They fidget in their seat like I have covered them in ****.

So I’m sorry. But for a moment. I want you all to feel *****.

To see my truth, I not only need to splash my dirt onto you. I have to pull you deep down into the dirt with me. I need you to feel this way for the rest of the day.
Even when you go home and you hug your children, you hold your loved ones, and you’ve washed yourself in the lies that this could never happen to someone you care about

It’s going to stick behind your ears. You’ll feel it between your fingers. This smell will linger on your clothes. For a long time.

Just for a moment, you’re going to taste ****.

I’m sorry about that.

Do you guys want to hear a joke?

What’s the difference between being hungry and being *****?... it’s where you put the cucumber!

Have you heard that one?

Fine. But how about...

What’s the difference between a ****** and a drug dealer?... A ****** can wash and resell her crack.

I love telling that one. It kills almost every time.

No? Still not laughing?

How about…

Mickey Mouse walks into a divorce lawyers office. The lawyer says “You want to divorce your wife because she’s crazy?” and Mickey says “No! She’s ******* goofy.”

Ha! I knew I’d get some smiles. That one always works.

Does anyone feel better yet? Even just a little cleaner?

Because I don’t.

I carry jokes like a first aid kit and I bandage my wounds in satire.

When you see me drown, let me throw a punch line like a safety net. At least we both don’t have to die

Go home. Learn my jokes. Spray them like air freshener.

Pretend to be ok.

Do you think suicide is serious?

We all know it’s “serious” but no one ever explains why it’s serious.

Do you ever think about that?

Like, really think about it?

I was thirteen years old when I first told someone I was suicide and they treated it like I had brought a gun to school.

Like I had killed my dog with my bare hands.

Like I pulled my shirt up and sliced down my stomach just to show them my insides.

In a way I did. I did show them my insides. That was the first time I showed them all of me. But instead of stitching me up, they put a bandaid on it.

That’s what it is! It’s like I keep bleeding out and they keep putting bandaids on me. And when they run out, they’re like “****… You should feel better by now.”

They’re telling me “Why do I keep opening old wounds?” even though this pain hasn’t even had time to scab yet.

The last time I told my mother I was suicidal, I couldn’t say it in those words. We went on a walk, on new year's day.

It was the first walk we had taken together since I was a child. She was mad at me about something but I figured “It’s New Year. It’s ******* New Years, you know? It’s time to say it. It’s time to deal with it. I’m an adult. I can do it.”

But I didn’t put it in those words. I couldn’t just say “I’m Suicidal.” So I said “I don’t think I’m going to survive for much longer.”

And she rolled her eyes.

As a writer, it’s my job to find words. To make them so eloquent and so beautiful that they stick with you for the rest of your life. My words are supposed to stick.

But I can’t find words for such a pain…

You see, looking back on that, it was my fault.

As a suicidal person, I made the mistake of thinking just because she’s my mother, it mean she can’t smell the ***** word of suicide.

I live in a world of referrals.

If my parents can’t handle it, they will send me to my siblings.

If my siblings can’t handle it, they will send me to my friends,

From friends, I go to doctors, and then other doctors. And then specialists.

From specialists, I go to hospitals.

And then, ironically, I’ll go to special hospitals.

Mental facilities have become as arbitrary as wishing wells.

And I’ve emptied my pockets! I’ve emptied my wallets. But if I empty my heart I think they’re going to find me at the bottom of it.

When I’m sick and tired of all the referrals, they have the audacity to tell me that I have given up.

I gave up.

I stopped fighting.

But I am here to tell you that I am suicidal.

It is a *****, ***** word.

I’m also a lot of other things. I’m so many things.

I’m a daughter. And they take my beauty and they call it their reflections.

I’m a sister. But they took my loyalty, and they called it respect.

I’m a friend. They took my humor and they called it ecentric.

I’m a writer. So I took my pain and I made it into poetry.

But I am suicidal.

I am suicidal.

Don’t take my strength and call me a survivor.

Please.

Don’t let yourselves forget what **** smells like.