Young Writers Society

he needed help.

how could no one see

his penetrating bones and the

unyielding complaints of hunger?

deny. deny. deny.

“i’m alright,” he says

while he shivers in perfect weather.

i noticed the marks of his monster’s grip,

and i did something

only to cry for him when he denied again.

this illness reaches in to help

and then tears flesh apart with ice cold hands.

he's in control of everything

until he's not.

deflect. deflect. deflect.

he puts up a front, but i know

he looks at his reflection

and sees his mortal enemy he cannot get away from.

maybe i bit off more than i could chew

because i know he won't.

he doesn’t want help, i know the mindset all too well;

i share the pain.

cry. cry. cry.

i have to turn away because it hurts me to see him.

what am i supposed to do?

watch him like a sick animal, killing himself slowly?

he’s in the depths of self destruction,

like sticking a fork into a socket,

and expecting fireworks.

avoid. avoid. avoid.

i was a danger to his twisted progress.

as they say, “you can’t help someone who doesn’t want help.”

but, just because you can endure something

does not mean you must withstand it.

i’ll go on record to be the first to say sorry, but just hear me out.

he may have lost all hope, but i haven’t.

and in the end, i’d do it all again to make sure he’s alright.

maybe they’ll all leave him alone, but not me.

if they won’t help, those friends don’t love him.

i put our relationship on the line,

and ended up fucking myself over when i confessed

that i understand anecdotally.

but i’d rather be fucked than to see my love die in his own arms.