It's 12:40 and I can't think
It's 12:40 and I can't speak

November 14, 2016
My friend committed suicide.
He left behind his newlyborn twins.
He left behind his mother, his friends.
I'd just talked to him the day before.
He laughed, we laughed.
12:45 p.m he was pronounced dead.

I have written a song for my friend.
He committed suicide.
Not so long ago.
April 27, 2017.
7:15 pm and he was pronounced dead.
I will forever miss him.
I had just talked to him.
He tried to warn me.

May 7, 2017.
I tried to **** myself.
Went into my bathroom.
Took over 400 ibuprofen.
Was in a coma.
My little brother found me vomiting.
He's nine..

How are these true stories funny?
How do people laugh and joke about it?
Knowing that it literally ruins people's lives?

How do we socially ignore it?
Why don't we at least try to help the problem?
Why don't we talk about the things that need to be discussed?

You can make a difference.

Yeah, YOU.

YOU can start it out.

Someone makes a "joke". Call em out.

Because everyone's worth it.
These people suffered and with people still using it
as a joke while their gone is unfair and disgusting.

But that's not it. THEIR worth it. But so are YOU.

i’d rather write about the freckles on your back than think about all of the ways in which you quite possibly don’t love me.

i feel sick at the very thought of you picking me apart the way you did; fingers grabbing and stroking in a catastrophic symphony of skin and vulnerability.

let’s read between each other’s lines; share my sentences and punctuate my paragraphs with your mouth; because i can breathe easier on the mornings where i wake up wrapped around you.

because my moods change like the ******* seasons and the spinning in my head doesn’t want to stop.
                                         you tell me that i should probably get a therapist because no one that thinks about all the ways in which they could **** themselves has an ounce of mental stability.
                                          i tell you that i have been to four.
                                          names faded into a blur with hazy snippets of conversation remaining.
20mg.
                    30mg.
you tell me that trust issues and scars aren’t endearing and i tell you that neither is counting up the potential number of pills needed to dissolve your body into the living room carpet.

let me sink inside your skin and make a home in your flesh;
i tell you about the nights where i lay awake in the bath turning the water red.
                       tragic, isn’t it.

you tell me that this isn’t how my head should work and i tell you that i already know. everything you could possibly tell me i already know.
i know that 400 calories a day isn’t normal, and my hands shouldn’t shake all the time.
                                             i know.
please let me stitch myself into you, even just for a while; until i no longer feel dizzy and my world stops spinning.
i don’t need you to tell me that it will be okay, because honestly i don’t think it will be and, that in itself, is okay.
                                                                ­                 let me stitch myself into you, because my own skin can’t take it anymore.

let me call you back when my voice stops wobbling and my vision straightens out, but honestly, i’m terrified that it never will. what if this is it. headaches and tears and shaking and blood.
                                             and the debilitating, gut-wrenching feeling of pure and euphoric emptiness.

                                              tragic, isn’t it.