“This is an intervention.” he says
My hands dance on the table on which I've laid my keys.
“W-why?” I stutter.
A thousand thoughts race through my mind.
What do they know?
What did they find?
The Razors?
The knives?
The gun?
The letters?
The bloodstained sheets for every time I lose my little bit of self-control?
The bottle for every time I want to lose that self-control?
“Not for you” he says.
My lungs deflate.
Not me.
Not me.
Not me.
“Who?”
“Danny.”
Danny?
“Why?”
“We think-
we think he might me suicidal”
“What?”
What?
Danny?
Suicidal?
No.
They're clueless.
Danny-
Danny keeps me alive.
He keeps me from using that gun.
I'm the one close to the edge,
not him
I want to scream.
To tell them how stupid          they are.
                        Can they not see it’s me-
not him?
“W-why would you think that?”
“We found a gun.”
My mind spins.
         A gun?
In Danny’s room?
Why?
“And a note.”
A note?
No.
No.
No.
No.
This can’t be happening.
Danny’s supposed to be strong.
He’s supposed to be my angel.
I’m the one who’s supposed to be broken.
Not him.
“We think he’s trying
to convince himself
not to.
The note-
it said
‘Don’t do it.
Think of all the good things.
Think of the people
who have no idea.
The people that love you,
would be devastated if you
pulled the trigger.
Don’t
do
it.’”
My heart stops.
I want to run into my room
grab my bottle
my razors,
maybe my gun.
I should have seen it.
Helping me was helping him.
“C’mon, sit down.
Wait for Danny.”
I sit,
curling my legs under me
so my knees don’t shake.
We wait in silence
My mind is in my room.
controlling the pain,
watching the razor glint in the sunlight,
slicing through flesh,
silent.
My mind is watching the blood well up,
watching t run down my wrist,
watching it fall slowly
hitting the sheet
being soaked up in a perfect ring.
My mind feels the cold metal
as I run my hands along the contours
of my escape.
My mind wonders what death is like.
What if I pulled the trigger
and found out?
What if-?
The door opens.
My mind is ****** back to the present.
“Danny.
This is an intervention.”
His keys drop onto the table next to mine.
“Why?” he asks,
confused, but calm.
“Danny,
we are your friends.
We care about you.
We’d miss you if you were gone.”
He hangs up his coat.
“What are you talking about?”
He sits across from me, staring into my eyes.
Looking for some clue to what was going on.
I look away.
I can’t take it.
“Danny,
we found the gun.”
His head snaps up.
His eyes bore into mine.
“You found that?”
“Yeah, and the note too.
Danny, we love you.
Don’t do it.”
He looks away from me for a moment.
“Excuse me?”
Jake puts a hand on his shoulder.
“Danny, we know you…
want to-
commit suicide.”
“What?!
You think I-
that I
that I’m suicidal?”
He leaps up.
“Danny, this is a safe place.
We love you.
You can talk to us.
We just want to help.”
He stares at me.
“So you
all
think I’m-
suicidal?”
“Yeah, we do, Dan.”
Jake says.
I can feel Danny’s eyes on me.
I keep staring at the floor.
“I-
I guess you got me.”
My head snaps up.
What?
Got him?
He’s really…?
“It’s just sometimes-
sometimes I feel as if-“
I recognize these words.
“life’s not worth living.”
They’re my words.
Exactly what I told him
only six months ago.
“I don’t know why.”
he repeats word for word
His eyes say glued to mine.
Oh my God.
“I know I’ve got people
that love me.
I just can’t help it
sometimes.”
I want to run.
I don’t want to hear this.
I understand now.
It’s not him.
He’s doing this for me.
“I’m sorry.”
Hours go by.
He repeats what I said to him.
Word for word.
I need to get out.
Now.
I might go crazy.
I might scream.
“IT’S NOT DANNY!
The gun is MINE!
The note is for ME!
I’m the one who’s suicidal.
Look at MY wrists.
Danny keeps me alive,
he’s not suicidal.
You’re so blind.
You don’t realize how close I am
to just ending it all.
You don’t see past all the
half-hearted
‘I’m fine’s
‘I’m okay’s
and
‘Don’t worry about me’s.
They’re all lies
I’ve been telling you for
over
a
year.
Wake up.”
Then I’d run to my room,
pull out my razors,
start there.
Let the pain
numb my mind.
So that when I
pull out my knives
I don’t feel the increase
in pressure.
I don’t feel how deep I’m going.
Blood streams down my wrists.
I close my eyes.
I don’t want to.
I try to force my eyelids apart.
They open a tiny bit.
Everything is still black.
I can’t see.
My head feels light.
I’m floating.
I can’t feel anything,
just one arm.
It’s warm.
It tingles.
Faintly,
I hear something slam.
Voices, shouting
in whispers.
I can’t understand.
They need to speak up.
I try to open my mouth to tell them.
I can’t.
Something presses on my warm arm.
I barely feel it.
I feel something lifting me.
I’m being carried.
Downstairs.
What is going on?
I hear something familiar.
I can’t figure out what it is.
Wee woo. Wee woo. Wee woo.
Sirens.
What is going on?
I’m being laid down.
I hear doors slam.
I’m moving again.
Some kind of vehicle.
Oh.
My
God.
Blackout.
Shouting.
Sirens.
Vehicle.
Oh.
My.­
God.
I went too deep.
I’m dying.
After a year of wondering,
I know.
I know what dying is like.
It’s calm.
I’m surprised.
I thought the process would hurt.
But no.
This is nice.
Somehow I know
death will be better.
I try to let it take over.
I can feel it trying now.
It wants to consume me.
to pull me under.
Make me fall asleep
and never wake up.
I want it to.
I’m not fighting.
But I still won’t die.
Why?
I try to relax.
I try to pretend I’m already dead.
I’m floating
just in nothingness.
It works.
I feel myself drift off.
Before I lose consciousness,
I have one thought.
‘Goodbye.’

Something stings.
A sharp pain in my right arm.
Why?
I’m supposed to be dead.
There shouldn’t be pain.
My left arm is stiff.
What is going on?
Maybe this is Hell.
Maybe that’s why I’m in pain.
Oh
my
God!
I am in Hell!
Why?
What did I do that was so awful?
Suicide, I know,
but still.
I don’t deserve Hell.
I try to open my eyes,
but everything is bright.
Too bright.
Artificially bright.
Something smells weird.
Like anesthetic.
Cleaner.
I hear a beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
Why does Hell feel like a hospital?
I force my eyes open.
Everything is white.
White bed.
White walls.
White door.
White floor.
A machine is sitting next to me.
Beep.
Beep.
Beep.
A green line dashes across the monitor,
following five double triangles.
My arms still stings.
An IV leads to a bag of clear liquid.
My left arm is heavily bandaged.
What kind of Hell is this?
The door opens.
Danny walks in.
“Hey.” he says.
“Hi.” I say quietly.
He sits in the chair next to the bed.
carefully, he takes my hand.
“What were you thinking?
I thought you said
you’d never go this far.
You said you had it under control.
You were trying to stop.”
He stares at me.
Waiting.
“I-
I don’t know.
I was trying.
Just…
hearing what everyone said.
Hearing my words
come out of your mouth.
Realizing how stupid they are.
I couldn’t take it.
I couldn’t listen to it anymore.
I had to get out of there.
So I screamed what I did.
Then I went in my room and-
started cutting.
I didn’t mean to go so deep.
I didn’t realize I did it.
Danny,
I’m sorry.”
“I know.
When you-
lost consciousness,
you had-
a smile on your face.
Why?”
I close my eyes.
I try to remember.
Everything is hazy.
I remember darkness.
I remember being pulled down.
I remember letting myself be pulled.
I remember wanting it.
Wanting to die.
I shiver.
“I-
I thought I was going to die.”
Danny’s jaw tightens.
“And that was a thought to make you smile?
I thought you said you didn’t mean to
go so deep.”
“I didn’t mean to.
It just…
happened.
And once it did,
well,
there wasn’t anything I could do.
So I just-
welcomed it.
I wanted it.
I was happy about it.”
He pulls his hand from mine.
“You wanted to die.”
he says calmly.
“You knew that.
You’ve known that
for six months.”
“No.
I knew you thought about dying.
I knew you thought about finding an easy out.
I knew you wanted an escape.
If I had known
that you wanted
to die
I would’ve kept my mouth shut.
I wouldn’t have bothered trying to save you.
If only I had known you were a lost cause,
we wouldn’t be here.”
I’m speechless.
What do I say to that?
How do I respond to hearing I’m not
worth saving?
“D-Danny. How could
you say that to me?
You know how I-
how I am.
You know what started this.
You know-“
“I know what
I know. But I didn’t
know how far gone you were.
If I had…
Well,
what’s the point?
You’re intent on
ending your
life.
I  can’t stop you.
I wish you wouldn’t.
But it’s out of my control.”
He stands,
and I’m surprised
I have no tears to shed.
He’s right.
I would have messed up
eventually.
Or I would have done it on purpose
eventually.
I’m not savable.
There’s no hope for me
anymore.
Assuming there was any
to begin with.
I glance down at my arm
wrapped in white
the end tucked somewhere
I can’t even see.
I suppose that’s so I don’t unwrap it.
They must have told
what happened.
Though I think
it’s pretty obvious.
I feel along it, trying to find
a way
to unwrap it.
This is it.
If I had died
before,
it would have been an
accident.
An accident
I could have avoided
and that I caused,
but I had no
intention
to commit
at that moment.
But now?
Now it’s intentional.
I slip the fingers of my right hand
under the edge
and pull.
The bandage begins to unravel,
so much fabric!
I find the stitches
holding my life in.
I pull the IV
put of my right arm,
letting the tube dangle above the floor.
I take one last deep breath,
and yank at the stitches.
My blood starts
poring
out, soaking the sheet
and the bed
and dripping to the floor.
The last thing I hear,
before I lose consciousness
for the last time
is the IV.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip….

They all see her.
They see her smile.
They see her straight A’s.
They see her skin-
Perfect, unblemished.
Beautiful-
They see her clothes-
Shirts cut just right,
Letting you know what she’s got,
But leaving you knowing you’ll never get it.
Skirts short enough to let you know
She knew how to have fun,
But she wasn’t going to have that kind of fun.
Heels just high enough
To put her beauty over the top,
But low enough she wasn’t just another Barbie.-
They see her, always with someone else.
Never alone.
They see her, always helping,
Always giving advice,
Always doing whatever she can for
Someone else.
They all see her happy.
They all see her as perfect.
They all see her beauty,
Her perfection,
Yet they miss,
The truth.
They miss the pain
Hidden deep in her eyes
As she smiles,
Helping them with their problems,
Wishing someone would see hers.
They miss the scars,
Hidden beneath that pretty silver watch
She says
Her father gave her,
Before he was deployed.
They miss the truth behind that watch.
They miss the engraved words on the face
‘Just a little longer…’
They miss how her ‘mother’
Looks nothing like her.
They miss everything.
Everything she wishes they would see.
Or at least try to.
She wants someone to even bother asking
“How are you?”
Or
“Are you okay?”

But no one ever does.
All they know is she
Seems
Happy. She
Acts
Happy
She’s always helping because she’s
Perfect.
And that’s what perfect people do.


But I’m not perfect.
I cry every day.
I’m struggling to keep it hidden.
I hate the life I’ve created.

They think I’m perfect.
But I’m the farthest thing from it.

Since I’ve been back
life hasn’t been the same.
I see children playing happily
and all I can think of
is the world they’re growing up in.
It’s not happy.
It’s not good.
This is an evil world.
They laugh at one another,
call out funny insults.
“You’re a meanie-head!”
“Well...”
a little girl with pigtails
struggles
to formulate an appropriate response,
“you’re a ****-face!”
They play games on monkey bars,
run from each other.
They are innocent,
ignorant.
They have no idea
the horror that awaits.
I wonder fo them
how many will go on
to see true evil?
To perform it?
To encompass the intrinsic definition?
How many will go on
to see what I have?
To hold a child’s hand
while they bleed out?
How many will
actually find happiness,
maybe never even understand
what I know exists.
I hope for their sakes
that’s how it is.

They continue to live in
ignorance.
Innocence.

AN: There are no errors. Every word, every space, everything is done on purpose.

Call it creepy.
Call it weird.
Call it masochistic.
I don’t care.
You don’t know,
you can’t fathom
how it feels
to see your blood well up
fill the tiny little channels
in your skin.
Watch your skin turn red,
then fade to pink,
then finally to white.
You don’t know
how it feels
to see your blood reach up
toward the stars,
dying white to red
in a matter of seconds.
You don’t know
what it’s like
to have your whole life
hang in the balance of
a pushed up sleeve.
To harbor secrets
so much darker
than the darkest of guesses.
You can’t know
the feeling of a defaced cross
forever imprinted in your skin
when you press you arm against
something flat.
You can’t understand
the easiness of a trance.
The lack of thought,
except maybe
“look how pretty”
or perhaps
“Bleed, bleed, bleed!”

You think you know
the pressure of-
not the blade,
because that’s not all
I use. More-
sharp objects,
but you don’t.
You think it’s all emotional,
bring mental pain to
physical pain.
or it’s a pathetic plea for
attention.
or it makes me feel better.
or I want to fit in.
or .
or.
or.
All this psychological
devaluation.
It’s all
wrong.
Chemical imbalance?
I guess we’ll never know.
I’m sure as hell
not getting
tested.
So you can throw me away
and lock up the key-
or is it the other way around?

No, you’re out of
your mind.
You want to overanalyze
me,
over complicate
me.
It’s simple.
I want to see myself
bleed.
I want to see what’s supposed
to be on the inside
on the outside.
Why does there have to be more?
Why do you have to blame my depression?
or Mommy?
or Daddy?
Because that’s the most widely accepted
excuse?
Rather than the truth?
Why would you rather believe
lies?
It shouldn’t be so hard
to find a name for this.
A name that doesn’t also apply
to biological disorders.
That’s not what this is.
This is something
solely
in my brain.
Neither
nature
nor nurture
but
a neurosis
that simply
is.
I have a
neutral
relationship with my
‘disorder’.
I don’t try to do away with it,
and it doesn’t try to
**** me.
But you don’t believe that.
It’s not healthy.
It’s bad.
You spout off meaningless
facts**statistcs
about suicides
in my age group.
How some
-emotional!-
cutters
accidently go too far
resulting in their
death.
SHUTUP!
I know what
you’re saying.
I understand
the statistics.
I know why
you’re concerned.
I get it.
But I’m ok.
Honestly, I am.
It may not seem like it,
I know,
but I swear it’s true.
I’m ok with who I am.
I have no shame.
Really.
You don’t know
how this is.
so just leave me
alone
and help someone
who really needs it.

Because I.
Do.
Not.

Her hands shake.

She's terrified of this person she's become.

It was never meant to be this way.

One time,

she swore.

One more,

she promised again.

Once a month

once a week

once a day

whenever she got a chance.

She never thought she'd be this way.

An addict.

When did it happen?

Why did it happen?

How?

It started way back when,

when life was kicking her ***.

She was drowning,

couldn't keep her head above water.

She struggled.

Kicking and screaming,

she powered on.

Tried

so **** hard.

She made promises

to herself

her friends

her Savior.

She promised

she'd be ok.

She swore she wouldn't

fall victim

like so many before her.

But she's never been good

at keeping her promises.

(Never been good at much,

actually.)

One time

turned to

many

many

many

more.

That night

an addiction started.

And she hates herself for it.

Hates her friends

for never opening

their ******* eyes.

Hates one in particular

for never asking the questions

she should.

Hates another

that she loves

for leaving.

Because that's what it was.

Excuses for unreplied texts

missed calls.

Two months.

She left.

That's what happened.

(Deny it all you want,

but you know for a fact

you stopped caring

when I went batshit.

You know.)

Hates her parents

for pushing

so **** hard.

(Why?

Maybe if I

had actually felt like

the words you say

were true

I wouldn't be here.)

But mostly she hates herself

for succumbing to

an idea

a notion

that never should have been

entertained.

But she did.

Now she's failing at recovery.

Failing being herself.

Failing life in general.

Failing living.

Failing

falling.

Sinking into old habits.

Old addictions.

Her hands shake,

holding the weapon

in this war of self destruction.

It touches her skin,

and she shivers.

****.

She wishes she could stop,

that she could be ok.

But she can't.

So she steadies her hands.

Pull.

****!

Blood drips,

and her mind is gone.

Such is the life

of an addict.

I stare at the board.

What is this?

What does it mean?

I thought I knew

but I look at it

again.

Wait.

What?

What does it mean?

Come to think of it,

what does

anything

mean?

Is any

of it important?

Does it matter

that we're here,

making friends,

and building lives

only to have them ripped away

before we're ready?

There's not really

a point,

is there?

I am from family.
Mom, Dad, sister, dogs.
And a sister God forgot to add
To my blood family.
I am from words.
My own, scribbled on a loose-leaf page.
Others’, neatly bound together.
Some written and recited,
Some belonging to a friend, and me
Secrets and fights stored in a forgotten back drawer.
I am from a cul-de-sac.
A place where we fell and bruised ourselves.
A place where we did stupid things.
A place where childhood lived.
I am from silver and gold.
A cross that hangs around my neck-
If I remember.
Sometimes I forget,
And it takes a hand over a house to remind me.
I am from fire.
I am from the fear,
That only those who’ve sat in a Wal-Mart parking lot,
And heard the words
“Don’t go home,. It’s not going to be there.”
Can understand.
I am from what was supposed to be,
From what never happened.
From what wasn’t meant to be.
I am from warm quilts,
Bedtime hugs
And ‘I love you’s.
I am from a second family.
A family that does not share last names,
Homes,
Or DNA.
But we are a family nonetheless.
I am from workdays with Daddy.
I am from afternoons with Mom.
I am from words filled with venom,
Meant to annoy,
That we never even meant.
I am from good times.
I am from bad times.

I am from me.

I want to say it.
I want you to know.
This…
this thing we have…
it's hard to deal with.
This…
this game we're playing.
Relationship chicken,
but kind of opposite,
is ridiculous.
It's opposite
because there's no relationship
to gamble,
except one that does not-
but could someday-
exist.
And this *****.
We're losing each other
but we're both scared.
Scared to care
for fear of getting hurt.
Again.
So we pretend
everything is fine,
nothing is awkward.
But in reality,
we're giving up.
Me on you,
You on me,
both on
us.

Life is a rope.
It begins with a knot,
That holds you together.
Twists and braids appear,
Every time you make a choice.
More yarn entwines, for every friend,
Some are yellow, bright and happy.
But every rope has its dark spots,
Plum and black.
They represent unfaithful friends.
Back stabbers.
And through our teenage years,
We fall in love.
We think that those threads,
must be a deep, passionate red.
If only we knew, those threads have nothing more,
Than a pink tint.
If we only knew what color love really is,
A bright, but deep all the same, red.
For some, those threads turn grey.
That love is disposed of.
But still it remains,
Intertwined in our rope.
I wonder, if more people took the time,
to look at their rope,
To trace each thread,
each fiber,
back to where it began,
Would the whole world's net,
Be stronger?

Why is it,
That I like you?
Like you more,
Than our distant friendship,
Could ever allow.
Why is it,
That you have no problem
Saying anything in front of me,
Even if it’s about you,
And my best friend.
But you’d never tell me.
Why is it,
That no matter how many hints I give you,
You can’t take them.
Why is it, that just as I realize,
It won’t work,
And I do my best,
To move on,
You come around.
You can’t leave me alone.
I talk to you every day.
And I try to tell myself,
I’m over you,
We can just be close friends.
But I’m lying to myself.
Why is it,
That I believe my lies?
I lie, and I tell myself,
“It’s him!” not you.
I give myself dreams,
And hopes.
I say I want them,
But deep down,
I know I don’t.
Why is it,
These fake fantasies come true?
I say I’m happy.
No I’m not.
Why is it,
He’s not you?