You, with your bleak expression and cracked lips,
told me you thought about killing yourself more
often than you didn't. I asked if this was normal,
and all you did is shrug. As if a shrug could let
me inside your mind, as if a shrug could dismiss
the fact that you were self-medicating once
again, against your doctor's orders. One time
you asked me if I would miss you if you
disappeared into the fog of a chilly October
night. I vaguely remember the conversation,
like a backdrop to a somber play where the
main character dies in the end. Shakespeare
made a career of writing about people
killing themselves, so why couldn't you?
A sip of poison, a single swipe of a blade
could end all the transgressions your life
ever held against you. So why, sixteen lines
into this poem, am I not describing your death?
That's not the story I'm telling. More often
than not, you told me you wanted to kill yourself,
but you never would because that would be giving in.
God, how stubborn we must be to never give in
to the demons that haunt the shadows of our minds.
It must drive them crazy how strong we've become.
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