When his mind started planning against him, leaving deep marks all over his arms, terrified, I sat beside his small hospital bed, tried my hardest not to crawl in beside him, pondered the weight of love and healing. My love would never be enough to keep someone feeling happy and whole and alive, but I still tried. I tried to revive him, clutching his hand, weeping next to him. I tried to revive him, staring numbly at his picture at his funeral. I tried to revive him, slightly vibrating, blaming myself. Abuse, shame, screaming, being abusive, hurt, fake, drugs, tears, years of rejection, he carried this all, he had this all pushed down inside him, he hit me and I didn’t say anything, I left him with guilt, how could he want to live? It’s been years and I still write about the grief because it’s what I know best. My friends call it a bad habit, say maybe, I believe that if I write tragic enough the world will try to fix every broken word that falls through my broken, chattering teeth.
Please be okay. Please be happy. Please be free.