it's 2 a.m. and all I can remember is the sound of your withering gasps and the clawing of the words up your throat. my alarm clock is one of those oldies; rings like a bell and doesn't light up, but in the faint glow of the busted street lamp outside I can make out the hands. it's 2 a.m. and you aren't the only one who's drowning in their own self-pity.you called me up on the phone, no words exchanged, and I listened to the sound of your hyperventilating. you're sobbing so much it's racking your chest and you cannot seem to get enough air through your lungs to see tomorrow.
but that's exactly why you're calling, right? because you'd be perfectly fine if you didn't wake up in 4 more hours, getting ready to board the bus to school. that'd be okay with you; but what you don't seem to understand is that it wouldn't be okay with anyone else. you're fifteen years of pure people. they flock to you and I guess you just don't understand how beautiful you have to be for that to happen. I guess you don't understand how compared to you, I always get the short end of the stick.
it's 2 a.m. and I still don't understand why you want to kill yourself.
I've seen you try to be like me. I've seen the tiny scars that litter your wrist and I see the bracelets you wear over them, but you always end up hissing in pain and they flock to you, asking what the problem is. you always, always tell them the truth. you want that attention.
he slapped my thigh yesterday. I strangled back the cries of utter shock and pain that jolted up my leg and up my hip and laughed it off with a twisted face. I know the pain of being found out. I know the consequences.
so tell me, what exactly is it? what exactly is the problem here that makes you want to throw your life away so dearly? you're still crying on the phone, your exasperated cries make you sound almost like an actress. you don't ugly cry, do you. not the type where snot flows down your face and you wipe it with the back of your hand. Not where your face is stained with so many tears it hurts to move it around. no. I doubt you've ever ugly cried in your life.
but I'm still your best friend, okay? so don't kill yourself. just don't. it's not worth the pain.
it's 3 a.m. and you don't know it, but only minutes before you called I had carved three more words into my hips and held a gun to my temple, stony faced and dry-eyed. and you just don't know how sweet it can sound when you scream yet. you just don't know.
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