Don't mistake my nostalgia for reminiscing,
Don't tell me all of my guilt is masked by all of his faults.
Because I am also to blame.
Though,
Feeling guilt does not make someone guilty,
Feigning innocence does not make someone innocent.
This is not a victimless crime,
But I cannot sit here and call myself victim
Without explaining to you what I put him through too.
I can't preach to you as a survivor
When the wounds I carry are just as deep as the ones I caused.

And I reach my finger so far down my throat as if I'm fishing,
I can never seem to catch anything besides sea sickness.
A whole ocean pouring from my mouth,
the saltiness burns as it comes up.
The waves are violent, as if they are trying to knock me all the way down to the bottom.
Cement fills my head dragging me down even faster.
And I'm stranded on this island,
I sit here thinking that this is going to be what finally kills me.
I continue to starve,
almost as though I'm used to it already.

And the little slip of paper said,
“Have you ever contemplated suicide?”
And there were check boxes underneath,
One said Yes and the other No,
And this sounds like a simple question but I don’t know how to answer.
See I’ve thought about what life might look like if I wasn’t in it,
Sometimes I write suicide notes
with what I think is no intention,
Some days I can’t get out of bed,
And I think about the people who will feel better when I’m gone.
But I haven’t laid on the bathroom floor with a pill bottle,
I haven’t held rope in my hand with a place to hang it,
People always assume contemplating suicide means holding a gun and putting it down,
Being at the hand of death and only looking over the edge,
And although it could be that really,
Contemplating suicide is cutting up an apple and thinking,
Maybe your family would be happier without you.
Its doing homework and thinking about what your teacher would think,
Or sitting in the shower,
Wondering if it will get better.
People say suicide is a one word answer,
But they never take into account the paragraphs before.
So as I’m sitting there,
Reading the question that I still don’t have the answer to,
I check no,
And think about it all day.

I always read poetry about those boys,
The ones with big brown eyes
And enough apologies to make you feel loved,
But I've yet to read a poem,
About how the boys with oceans for eyes
Are just as dangerous,
How they have enough "I love you"s
To make you feel sorry for them.

All you are is
Nostalgia
With a neon smile,
And Wildfire,
With a steady hand

Got Me Drunk On Wanting Reasons,
And High Off Nothing But Excuses,