We grew up together,
all 14 years of your life.
Our feet would dance raw on sandpaper
and our laughter sat on the heat.
Vegas was a tough for you.
In the bathrooms at school I would watch your eyes fall from their sockets,
with every hug tolerated your nails chalked into my back,
I sat through every insult tug your eardrum from your head.
My assistance wasn't enough.
You missed nearly 4 days of school and weren't answering my emails or phone calls.
It was like nobody was home.
I ditched school the next day and ran my worries to your doorstep until my lungs were blistered.
I tangled my feet up the stairs twice.
Broke the bathroom door and found your
body limp with your head facedown in the sink,
lip caught in the drain,
fingers were vines in between the handles,
I just sat there,
cradling your body.
Your patience dried up,
and you were thirsty,
but in the desert of Las Vegas,
water is scarce.