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His eyes cower under the weight of prescription leaflets;
Side effects are augmenting the blaze of the pyre that
Depression built. Glowing bright- static, and indifferent to the soaking of logs meant to slow the ignition.
At the very least, he can try to send a signal with the smoke. 
But in the fog, there is only a fading voice describing the reasons why razor blades and gun oil seem to find their way into the same paragraphs he reads about in articles describing, not only his condition but how to deal with it. 
Even his doctor told him that some people found cutting 
“therapeutic”. He didn’t say any more than that.
That was enough. 
And in that awkward few minutes after, while the man who spent nearly a decade supposedly dedicating his life to learning how to help people like him. He got nothing 
but a side eye, and another audible of chemicals that “just might”
do the trick. We’ll see in 2 weeks. 
But in those 2 weeks that young man will be alone. 
Braving the introduction of a new onslaught to his mental state.
Creeping through midnight hallways. Dismantling a .40
he’s come to call the final way out. 
Screaming into pillowcases, and carving into his hate of himself with the knife his father left him. Wondering how many nights he did the same thing. Because even though he didn’t get to know
him well. He knows that when people say, “you’re a spitting image”. 
It’s on the tip of their tongue. 
Somewhere, deep down. They’re wondering. 
How much longer he’ll last. 
-James Kelley 2018

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