almost sunrise, perhaps.
The gray hard city sits like an ocean
churning and turning under the smoke smog sky.
She perches on the concrete wall, knees drawn in like a little bird.
So far up that the glowing cars are blurry pixels of white, yellow and red.
And the buildings below are just painted pictures,
stone and lifeless and small, windows glinting with the return of the sun.
So far away that it’s easier for her to balance on the railing and let the wind ruffle her dress.
Easier to close her eyes and spread her arms like wings.
The haze of lost-sleep and cigarettes still hangs still and silent in the air.
Her wrists are scarred, they haven’t noticed
or just haven’t said anything.
They didn’t know that she needed help
until she jumped into the concrete sea, so far below,
They didn’t know that she was screaming at them, with her scarred wrists and tear-painted hands.
Help me, I’m drowning, please, take my arm and pull me out. Swim with me to a buoy so that I can save myself. They didn’t know.
They lost her to the crashing waves and the riptides.
And they needed her more than they knew, or will ever know.
I know suicide and depression are a touchy topics for some, I'm sorry if this offended anyone or triggered any unpleasent memories.