I'm trying to write something beautiful but I can't stop thinking about the way your eyes looked when you told me about your past and I can't stop biting my nails over you even though my family hates the habit. It's like the way your little brother corrects himself whenever he accidentally mentions your father's drinking because your mother told him before he could process it that what happens behind closed doors stays behind closed doors. It's how the thought that you can never be anything less than exceptional is woven into your bones because your parents love boasting about their college-bound son with the baseball talent but they always forget to mention the same green-eyed champion has tried to **** himself three times and hopes that every fire he fights voluntarily might **** him, because maybe then he would die with dignity. It's in these fires that you find yourself because the smoke in your lungs temporarily pushes out your demons just long enough for you to do some good and save someone's life. But it's through these flames that you consider inhaling too much or taking off your safety equipment just to die right there because it would be so easy to just go with the dignity of being a hero rather than to die on your second floor bathroom tile with a pistol in your right hand