I'm clutching a frail piece of paper taking in the words of a stranger. It's the letter she left for her parents that night when everything was hollow and falling asleep sounded like a scolding mother counting one, two.And waking up was three, a smack in the face that reminded her that she can't keep doing this she can't keep waking up.She's been waiting so long to die. And already she's opened up her wrist like gates and white picket fences and poured out flowers to prove that not everything is perfect. She says it tastes like bile every time she breathes and she's so fucking tired of smiling when her body trying to heave. Water goes down like soot, and she's swearing this is the last time. She's telling everyone she's sorry wishing she was stronger. But her limbs are already too sodden with paint dripping from her doubts to carry her much further. She didn't know how close she was to getting out. She's listing all the people she'll miss and there are so many names you can't catch your breath because one of them must have known. Her sobs are crying out through the strokes left on the page every jagged edge and ending. Every point and subtle blade.She must not have understood. But her words are heavy and there taking brew inside of me. She's writing such a melody my fingertips are quivering with sound but she's not listing to the music. She's frantic trying to drown it out. Her pulse has become a burden. And it has gotten so damn loud. She doesn't know she has a hope that her words have wings and with them. She could fly that her dull pencil tip could save her if she'd stop to listen. She learned she could write beauty as she pinned her suicide note. So far from me now but I'm glad that wasn't the last thing I wrote.