In Memory

You don't have to drag blades across your skin or wrap your neck in twine to feel yourself die.

If you do that, you're already dead.

You die before you kill yourself. You feel your heart die, your soul. 

Why you take your body with it, I'll never know.

You're not going to fight for yourself, no matter who fights for you.  And I don't want to watch you die, but I'm going to.  And I'm going to pound on the shell of your body, screaming for you to stop, even though it's soundproof inside.

I'm washing these pills into the ocean.  I'm burning these ropes and hiding all the fluids you've poured into your mother's glasses and stared at in a cold kitchen by yourself.

I may have to watch your deaf soul die in your soundproof body, 

but I will not let it go cold.

In memory of your soul, for turning your eyes brown and reminding me to feed my sister when all I could think about was school. The soul that knew where to find good fries, and canvases, the same soul that fell in and out of love with him, that was still afraid of horses after all these years. The soul that didn't know left from right without hand gestures, that memorized lemon bar recipes and knew every line of her parents wedding song.

I'm going to find a way past your damaged skull and young, broken shoulders.  I will reach in and strangle your soul until it learns to appreciate breath. I promise.

Because I know it's there. And I know while it slumbers, that it dreams of pastel shorts and road trips and rugby boys just like you did.

Just like you will, once I wake you up.