The first thing said to me
this morning
was a request.
The halls were empty but for us and one more,
the linoleum tiles echoing with far away feet.
Binder open,
eyes fearful,
he asked what the homework had been.

The second thing said to me
this morning
was an accusation.
People moved around us in tides of sleepiness,
the ceilings shouted for us to all shut up.
Hair askew,
eyes concerned,
she called me out on the cuts on my arms.

The third thing said to me
this morning
was a message.
Music summoned us to class,
teachers shouted for prompt attention.
Backpack sideways,
handshake feeble,
his glance told me, "have a good day."

The sun shines upon flesh,
bathes it in heat and cheerfulness,
lavishes upon it gifts of light and promise.
The sun shines upon a walking corpse,
skin but a display,
behaving as if alive for lack of alternative.

The wind moves among hair,
covers it in cooling whimsy,
carries it towards peace and frivolity.
The wind moves among exhalations,
each breath but a show,
in an out to pass the time.

The blade sits upon a shelf,
speculates on past and present,
mindless as a thing long dead.
The blade passes through the yielding skin,
each slice like a breath,
anything to feel alive.

I turn off the lights and hide beneath a blanket
phone dimmed,
laptop closed until I absolutely must open it.
Still,
11:21 pm and in comes a figure
to tell me to go to bed or risk the penalties.
He's trying to help me.
Hypocrisy.

The next day in the halls
and there is a figure in a hoodie,
backpack off one shoulder,
and I want to apologize but the look in his eyes hasn't changed
and somehow I know I was right,
that something is wrong,
that the search the night before hadn't been so pointless.
Hypocrisy.

Suddenly the air in my lungs is a brick
there in the hallway,
a sliver of eye contact before I look away
hide my arms when his are on display for all to see,
and I know anything I could say
in that very moment would be
Hypocrisy.

Food and cutting
two things
that torture me
two things
I can't go a day
without.

Satisfy
my morbid desire
to know
just how you are this morning.
You wish you were dead
and I don't blame you.
Your hand-written note
and Aspirin bottle
loom large in my imagination.
I think of you
falling asleep to ask Death,
"May I go now?"
and his response
of rocking you in his arms just one more night.
In my mind's eye
your cat (the little black one) watches you
take your phone in hand,
the clock readout "9:10 pm" in its green lettering,
and calmly type your confession.
You are not dead,
but you want to be,
and I grab a wire and some neosporin
because I can just picture
what I plan to do next.