A knock on the door.
    It’s 1 a.m.
I wrap a blanket around me and crack open the door

She stands there, silent
    Terrified of judgement
        But needs help

I turn on the lights,
    Pour some water, something to keep her hands steady

“I’ve been…hurting,”
    She says, hiding her face in the shadows of my room

I see the stories of pain and suffering,
    Scored into her arms

Some are old stories, faded by time
    Overlapped by new moments
        Brought on by a new school, a new life

I hold her close,
    And she talks to me
        About life, about stress, about death

And we cry
And we laugh
And then she agrees to get help.

It's 1 a.m.
I pull the shining blade close to me,
    Then push it away

I don’t want to hurt myself,
    I don’t want to disappoint,
        I don’t want to do this,

The sharp poke pulls me back to reality,
    Clears my mind, reminds me who I am.

I watch the red draw designs on my skin.

Why can I help her, but can’t help me?