**TW: reflection on a friend’s successful ****_attempt_**__

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_“Death is just finally resting_.”

It’s a little ironic, that _you_ told me that.

Seeing as days ago,

that bridge was your last location.

Your momma called me,

she knew I was your last chance.

Dang, I never knew how mad

a momma could get,

I’m hurting enough,

why don’t you just put your hands up?

That’ll hurt less.

Oh my god, my head,

my heart, my mind-

Your momma called me.

She said it was my fault.

She said she’d sue my family,

and if it weren’t for the Mr.,

I know she would have.

I’m not even kidding when I say

it hurts to even laugh,

to smile.

I heard a couple of girls,

giggling in the halls.

They chatted about stupid stuff,

but maybe it was just a coverup.

A “pretend it’s not there.”

Like when your best friend dies,

and then your other friend does too,

and the rest of your acquaintances,

don’t even mind to ask you

just how you’re doing,

when you keep banging your head

against the walls,

hoping that those girls

will get out of the halls-

they’re making you relive your trauma,

making your memory lose itself,

making your mind scream for

forever useless help.

It’s not their fault,

they’re teenagers just like me,

we’ve all been through bad times,

and never saw a way out.

I’ve been through some things,

maybe that’s why I can’t remember,

well, I can, but not if it’s important.

I remember stupid 6th grade,

High School Musical, and “Back To December.”

But god, I wanna be back in winter,

when I knew how to be friendly,

and when high school changed me,

because it always does,

it ruined something

worse than anything ever would.

I remember saying,

that when she was texting,

she was already, finally, resting.

I could’ve stopped it,

but I was too busy accepting

that words were better than people.

Well, if I live like that,

there will be no more that I care about,

no more people to love,

because what I’m most afraid of,

the reason I’d rather read—

is that they’d all rather sleep

than imagine being friends with me.

I’m sorry to be selfish.

I’m sorry I didn’t help.

I’m sorry you were crying,

I’m sorry I did nothing.

I’m sorry I didn’t help.

I’m sorry I wasn’t myself,

because if I was,

I swear to you, I would have helped.

But I wasn’t.

I wish I could feel better,

without feeling guilty.

Because it’s all my fault-

I managed to break someone,

to the point my own bandage

was full of shattered tears,

broken rips.

And when that car hit—

You once told me,

_“Death is just finally resting.”_

I wish I believed it.