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I want you to live in my mind for a minute.
I want you to know that my eyes turn three shades
bluer when I cry, and that I have spent my last three years
fighting fire with fire and pain with pain.

I never learned to tie my shoes the grown-up way
and four percent of suicide attempts end like they’re meant to.
Every forty minutes, somebody succeeds and
I know it hurts to call death a success, but please
walk a minute in a broken soul’s shoes and I want you to know
that forty percent of the people on Earth own no shoes to tie.

I was born two weeks late and a pound underweight
and half-a-million mothers cry for carriages gone wrong
each year. The richest man on Earth is worth
seventy-four billion bucks but eleven percent of
this planet’s people have no clean drinking water.

I want you to walk on bare feet for a minute and
swallow your spit to stay alive. Tell me again how
empathy is weaker than science and numbers and you.
Every forty minutes, a person leaves this world by choice
and every second, four arrive without intention.

Our world is a broken heirloom, but I swear every time you
give a smile, a dollar, or a minute, you are binding
a part of it whole. We have been recycling our oxygen
for centuries, and have yet to stop finding fresh air. Breathe.

There are seventeen people in the world who look
nearly exactly like you, and seven billion souls
who wonder if they are alone.
You’re not.

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