When I met her, all she did was draw.
What I thought was creativity, was a message.
A plea for help, an outlet.
Her telling us she wasn't okay.

When I grew to know her, she seemed pessimistic.
What I though was overthinking, was seeing the truth.
Not pessimistic, realistic.
Her telling us she wasn't okay.
Her telling me, I was blind.

Now, I am scared to admit I don't know
Her favorite words to tell me are "**** me"
Her sense of humor isn't the brightest, this might be a joke.
It might not be.
It might be another plea I am blind to see.

In this ocean of emotion,
only one thing is clear to me.
I don't want to let her climb that tree,
I want to give her some time,
help her off this ledge I see
Let her think this through one more time,
Share it with her family,
get some help,
but then,
she just might
slip
free.