People like us, bide our time because
We never reach adulthood.
I tried to be your friend.
Your anger like death through submersion resisted me.
I watched you suffer.
Every single day, our peers ripping you apart until you were metaphorically naked, destroyed.
Sometimes, you secretly wept in the girls bathroom as I stood in a stall recalling my own pain.
How in Elementary School, I too was bullied on a daily basis and I too carried secrets. I being Molested for an entire year (1988), and still having to deal with food being thrown at me, my belongings being stolen, sexual advances from the older kids.
It didn’t stop.
That’s where I met you.
I didn’t know your secrets, but I was aware of your torment.
*You didn’t know I was sick, and that was my secret.
People like us, we were cornered with no one to protect us. No one cares. Not even parents.
The only solution is Suicide.
You were twenty-two when you took your life.
Your Parents started an Awareness Group for individuals suffering from Mental Disorders.
You came out to your parents at a very young age. After that singular adolescent moment of your personal clarity, your parents abused you every single day as you were beaten in High School and struggled publicly for being Gay.
You took your own life in your parents living room, Never reaching your twenty-first birthday.
Your parents arranged a Memorial in your Name.
Why wait until after we’re all dead to help?
Our fragility was not self murder as children, but the afflictions we experienced that interrupted our youth.
But, you all wait until after the matter of facts and too lates.
Why not extend a hand, comfort when we’re alive?
Are we that much of a burden you’d rather wait for us to self destruct, to capsize, then drown our hearts and souls only to wander the afterlife lost forever?
I guess it’s just easier that way.
“When I am dead, and over me bright April Shakes out her rain drenched hair, Tho you should lean above me broken hearted, I shall not care. For I shall have peace. As leafey trees are peaceful When rain bends down the bough. And I shall be more silent and cold hearted Than you are now.” Sara Teasdale (Her Suicide Note)