you asked me
who would care
if
you killed yourself.

you
think
that
nobody
would
except
for
me
and maybe
your family.

okay.

but if
you did **** yourself,
i would
be
very
angry
with you.

i would tear
your note for me
to shreds,
because
i
know
that if you wrote me one,
it'd be decorated
with doodles
and calligraphy
and the very essence
of the sunshine
that was your smile.

i would not
deliver
a eulogy.
if i did,
it'd include phrases
like
"she tried"
and
"i don't know what to tell you,
the universe ripped us apart
again"
and i don't think
your family would like that
very much.

i would not
help write
an obituary.

i would not
do anything
but sit there,
disappointed
that the clouds in the sky
and the stars
and all the magic spells
never stepped in to do anything,

that all your hard work
didn't work.

that the chemicals
in your brain
ran muddy.

and honestly,
i would leave.

i would leave to a country
with minty skies
and
forested floors
trying to discover something
as beautiful and unique
as you are.

i would never find it.

all the heat of the sun
couldn't melt away
the rigidity
of my expression

and even pouring rain
cannot regrow a lost soul
from the soil.

and all the people who thought
it was
tragically romantic
can have a taste
of my fist.