Sometimes when it gets dark
I scroll down my friend's blog.
She wants to **** herself.
I want to tell her I won't see her in hell.
That those pictures of starving women, all bones with skin stretched across like canvas
Aren't lovely.
They're obscene.
She makes me feel so mean
Hating her like I do when I see another silent moving picture
Of a girl swinging from rope
And another self indulgent sentence or two
About how she wishes that was her.
I want to tell her she hasn't earned her right to give up.
That nobody has.
She makes me wonder if I am cold and heartless,
Or just a self-hate survivor.
I remember feeling like I'd already died
Underground in the silence of all that dirt
Thinking it should be more peaceful than it was.
I never gave up.
I suppose maybe the reason I hate her so much
For her indulgences
Is not that I see myself as better,
But instead the lingering impression that when I was that way
I was the weakest
Most abhorrent
Most useless little smudge on the cold silver mirror of living,
And I still kept on.
Maybe it's not that I think I'm better than she is
But that I know I was worse
And I don't want anyone giving up
When they're all stronger than me.
Don't want to see a quitter more capable than I am
When I- even I, the pandering puppydog weakling-
Never gave in.