Three hundred and sixty five days ago,
You tried to take your life.
I find it such difficult road block even thinking about it.
Even though now,
I can't even look at you let alone say your name.
Without feeling something.
I think it's called helplessness,
Or betrayal,
But three hundred and sixty five days ago,
I didn't know that the train tracks with bloody lines
Criss crossing against the white
Labyrinth of your skin
Would be the death of you.
That the bottle that you held so close to heart
Would betray you and lead you to a place,
Where a bathtub and a knife
Were the only friends left in the world.
And that's when you called me
It's the words that I can't say anymore because
It's too damn harsh for me to realize
That you could have died
And even though you aren't within my
Circle of companions
Anymore I still consider you there
In hopes that you know that it's not alright
But you know that I can't let you in
For too many nights of uncurled fingers lie
Buried beneath this flesh and bone.
For I can't say I'm sorry
And nor can you.
But three hundred and sixty five days
Haven't changed anything
And nor do I think that it should
Because it's the need of escape
That still calls your name.
Only now,
It's got my name
Tacked like an afterthought to the end of the list,
Hoping that I will succumb to the pressures
Of being a perfectionist
With a cloud of darkness surrounding my head.
And letting me know that if you could have done it,
Why can't I?