you always had razors hidden around your room. even months after you stopped scarring your skin and crying in the shower. I found one under your pillow and asked why you still had it. you said “just in case.” the next day you came to school in sweatpants, with bags under your bloodshot eyes. you said “I’m just tired” if only I had been looking into your eyes when you said that, then maybe I could’ve seen the sadness in them and how “just tired” didn’t even being to explain what you were feeling. a week later when we were changing for gym I noticed the familiar red dashes across your wrist. I asked you why and you couldn’t even look me in the eye before you slammed the stall door and began crying. if only I had just given you a hug instead of worrying about being late to class, you would still be here. when your death was announced in school two weeks later, everyone gasped, except for me. I wasn’t surprised because even if I didn’t want to admit it, I knew you’d do this. I knew that “just in case” really meant you were getting bad again and that “just tired” didn’t just mean a lack of sleep, you were tired of living.
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