Well, you were eighteen and choking

and _whatwasIsupposedtodo_

but shoot, blindly, into the blackhole

with my kind words that you cried for

then drenched in your inescapable darkness.

Weekly, I'd find you hanging,

tightening the noose, on that old

oak tree round the back

and I'd hack at the rope, fists and axe

sharp and heavy with dread.

You'd beg me to tie you back up.

But what a girl you were.

Learning how to do makeup

for the first time, how to crave

the only boy who'd kiss your scars

as if he'd never had any of his own.

Like a kid, looting goods from a warzone,

you'd take any love you could get.

Calling me a bitch, saying I hate you

_if you don't reply I'll kill myself_

__

but I didn't mind. You were hurting.

I was fourteen with a saviour complex

and a brain too good for my body.

I figured, a good man dies for a woman,

lets her kill him if it keeps her alive,

and this is what it means to be a man.

Then damn it, I was your man.

_if you were just a little older id date the fuck outta you_

__

Where are you now?

I hope you got everything you wanted.

I hope you found another job.

I hope they call you by your name

and your wrists are clean

and your favourite song

plays as your alarm every morning,

and reminds you to live.