There are a lot of things I would like to say,
Like:
Don’t let them get you down,
Things WILL get better as the years go by But,
What I really want to say is
Don’t do it.

We both know what I’m referring to,
That small orange cylinder of pills,
That your pale hand so desperately clings to.

I know it feels like everything has failed you,
In one big landslide,
That those 75, 25 mg pills will save you.
They won’t.

They will condemn you,
Both of us,
To a future of therapy,
A distrust of dull blades,
Triggers on television,
And a label with misuse of medication.

Yes,
It hurts.
That cheap multicolored linoleum,
Is the only comfort to you as of late.

But I want to say;
Even if those pills have been swallowed,
And are currently dropping like stones to your stomach-
It is not too late.

Don’t crawl into your bed,
And morph into a blob,
Like I know you so desperately want to,
Stumble downstairs.
Go outside.
Tell our mother what you’ve done.

I warn you;
It will break her,
Like your brothers bedroom window.

After the police have been called,
You will hear a mothers choked up voice.
The neighbors will walk outside to observe the scene,
With eyebrows raised hands placed to their mouths in horror,
Wondering:
“What has she done?”

A cavalry of police cars will appear,
And the ambulance will seem like the royal carriage-
But it’s a send off.

You will meet the dreaded cliff of life,
And you will so desperately cling to that crumbling edge,
Watching your heart rate rise and fall like a tide.

You will hate yourself more than you ever have.

While your mother grieves over her nearly fallen baby girl,
You will see your father,
The brick and mortar of the family,
Cry,
Not even making an attempt at staying strong for his wife of 25 years.

I know,
I have not reached you,
But,
I wish I could.