breathe. breathe. i know it’s difficult when every lungful tastes like copper heartache, and every exhale doesn’t displace the crippling regret, but darling, you have to breathe.
do not think about blades and bridges, guns and nooses. do not think about how easy it would be to scale your school roof and fly. do not imagine your graduation robes replaced for funeral gowns, or your valedictorian sister delivering a eulogy instead of a speech.
do not think about rushing blood and falling water. do not think of pharmacies and drugs, and how easy it has always been for you to spin a lie. do not use your writer’s mind to arrange a dramatic death, a harrowing discovery. do not do not do not imagine death.
if you must imagine anything, imagine the way her face will crumple when she learns that you are dead. your suicide may bring a moment of vicious, triumphant revenge, but she will never again be able to look at an elephant without flooding the world in tears. you have never wanted to hurt her like that.
if you must imagine anything, imagine the way your teacher will destroy himself out of guilt and love. he had always loved you best, and the fact that he hadn’t saved you - hadn’t even known you needed saving - will drag him into a bottle and never teach again.
if you must imagine anything, imagine a boy in a coffeeshop, a girl in a bookstore. his ribs push through his skin, her wrists are marred with scars. their whole lives they’ll be plagued by emptiness, a phantom lover, holes-that-should-have-been-filled, puzzles-that-should-have-been-solved. their whole lives they will miss someone they never had. someone that should have been you.
so sweetheart, tuck away the blades, throw away the pills, burn the note you’ve already written. there is so much left to live for.