Ten.
I’m starting to feel so tired.
The world doesn’t make sense anymore.
No joy lingers in the things I do.
What’s wrong with me?

Nine.
I pack my bags and head to school.
I can’t fake sick anymore;
I have to go.
I hate it.

Eight.
The bus ride home is loud,
deafening.
Kids scream—
I press my temples.
The headache grows.

Seven.
I’m home at 2:57.
I walk through the door and hug my mom.
I slip her my favorite ring.

Six.
I text my dad to tell him I love him.
He won’t respond.
He hates me.

Five.
I write three letters:
To my mom,
To my dad,
To my girlfriend.

Four.
I grab my pills and take a walk.
I end up in a field.
It’s beautiful.
I sit for a while, breathing it in.

Three.
I check my phone, hoping,
A flicker of desperation.
No message from Dad.

Two.
My mom calls,
her name lights up my screen.
I don’t answer.
I pull out the pills.

One.
I try to do it.
But something stops me.
I sit there for what feels like forever.
Then I stand and head home.
Coward.