You know:

I started reading about self harm.

And I found that it was the only thing that broke my heart- my scarred and bruised heart was finally broken.

My heart swelled and gushed and broke for you.

And all those gashes.

How the skin swelled. Blood gushed.

How you broke.

And especially how you would lie. And say you're fine. Until your depression forced the truth from your lips.

And I remember all those bracelets. All those things to hide your wrists. And how TWLOHA was seemingly permanently engrained on your arms.

And I remember thanking God that it wasn't from a blade dug into your skin. And how it was funny and ironic because I didn't believe in Him then.

But I kept your secret for all these years. And I hope you're doing better.

I pray that you are.

And if you aren't..?
    Well, I guess you'd never tell me.

Not anymore.


And you see:

That's why I'm bitter. Why I'm angry. Why I'm hurt.

Just tell me honestly that you're fine and don't you dare tell me a lie.

Cause I was there.

And I remember.

And I still think about it all the time.


And believe me when I say that it has consumed me.

It affects the way I write.
And what I say.
And how I meant it.

It's about the only thing I write.

Words like: scars. Wrists. Etched. Carved.

See. I'm a liar if I say I still don't think about you all the time.

You were sitting in my golden room
You threw my things off their perches
and proceeded to wall on my antique bed.
My bible was pretending to lay silent on the floor.
Oppression wasn’t in the Quran on my bed but the 2000 Red Dodge Ram
Drove you away.

Your parents deemed
my short haircut
a symbol of homosexuality.
They placed my name among the delinquents.

You would always rock your skinny jeans.
I know you were wearing them when you tried to slit your own wrists.
You found things to live for when you found me.
We shed our pants, camped out on my battered couch, and watched Rocky Horror.
I’ll never understand;
you can have love affairs with Panic!At the Disco and Carried Underwood.
You drug me to Jarritos Mexican Soda
And hugged the stranger in the TWLOHA t-shirt.
You texted me “Goodnight, seep tight, don’t let the zombies bite” when you finished my “No mas pantalones” notice.
We went to Sweet CeCe’s to celebrate getting fired from your therapist.
I know you’re okay
the same way you quoted John Green in my room that day
and I still miss you.
Keep your smiles and your paints.
we’ll be 18 one day.

You know:

I started reading about self harm.

And I found that it was the only thing that broke my heart- my scarred and bruised heart was finally broken.

My heart swelled and gushed and broke for you.

And all those gashes.

How the skin swelled. Blood gushed.

How you broke.

And especially how you would lie. And say you're fine. Until your depression forced the truth from your lips.

And I remember all those bracelets. All those things to hide your wrists. And how twloha was seemingly permanently engrained on your arms.

And I remember thanking god that it wasn't from a blade dug into your skin. And how it was funny and ironic because I didn't believe in him then.

But I kept your secret for all these years. And I hope you're doing better.

I pray that you are.

And if you aren't..?
    Well, I guess you'd never tell me.

Not anymore.


And you see:

That's why I'm bitter. Why I'm angry. Why I'm hurt.

Just tell me honestly that you're fine and don't you dare tell me a lie.

Cause I was there.

And I remember.

And I still think about it all the time.


And believe me when I say that it has consumed me.

It affects the way I write.
And what I say.
And how I meant it.

It's about the only thing I write.

Words like: scars. Wrists. Etched. Carved.

See. I'm a liar if I say I still don't think about you all the time.