At 11, I was able to see the scars on someone’s wrist
I was able to search for the marks on someone’s soul
And heal it with my own
I was a dam to emotions and pain
To depression and inter hurt
because I saw the scars

By 13, I thought I was past this
Past the terror and the soul-wrenching guilt
This constant need to heal the hurt
And fix the broken

But then I heard the one thing I remembered so very well
And all the memories came flooding back
With “I hate my body,” “I broke my streak,” “I killed another butterfly,” “can you see it.”

I have told these people my life I told them I would be there for them
But it seems that instead of just being there for them, I am them
Covering their emotions
Using my own
I am tired
So very tired

But that’s the thing.
I can say anything because
If you aren’t directly harming yourself
But a bystander and a buffer
You have no right to say anything
You don’t “know what they are going through” or “you wouldn’t get it. “

Sweetie, I have been around it my entire life.
It’s the only thing that kept me from doing the same things
They did to themselves
Because I know what it’s like to be me

Late August 2021
I learned that one of these people attempted suicide last year.
What do I do now
I called every week after I moved
I texted
I consoled
But this is what happens

Why do I feel guilty?
I blame myself
To someone who is thousands of miles away
I could have done so much more
Been there more

And now when they say I’m ok
I don’t believe it
I don’t think anything anyone says anymore

So I may not be a suicidal survivor
But I am the best friend
Just the best friend
That is what you see from the outside
And ***** it, thats hard
You have to watch someone as they fell into a deep hole
Knowing you can’t stop
Seeing the scars without wanting to

So this is me, the mender of broken things
My thread is my soul
My fabric is my heart
I’m surprised both are still there.