As you rifle through the papers in your folder
I catch a glimpse of something
I thought you buried in your past,
Last year
When someone told.
I look at your wrists and say
'Those had better be old.'
You look at your wrists
Your eyes grow distant and you reply
Like we're talking about something simple like the weather:
'They are. I think it was Thursday.'
Thursday.
So recent.
Why?
Why do you do this to yourself
When you had told everyone you'd quit?
The next day you tell me
You're moving to Ohio
With your dad.
I ask why
And you lead me to the hallway,
Show me your wrists.
'You told me you would stop' I say.
You look away.
'Why?'
You tell me that things aren't good at home:
Your mom blames you for everything,
Your brother is a jerk,
You just can't take it anymore,
Need to escape the hurt.
It hurts me that you do this.
Why create more pain
On top of everything else?
It's not going to help anything get better.
You promised me you'd quit.
If you had only let me know
That things were this bad
Maybe I could have helped.
Instead you bore your pain in silence,
Confided your troubles
With your cold, steel lover.
Trusted instead your blade.
Why did you turn to self mutilation
When you knew you had
A friend.