And you’re going to say that you can’t do this anymore, like the waves just keep crashing and you’re just another pile of rocks that take the beating. Unable to get away, trapped by boundaries, and restricted to feel anything but the great blue sea of repeat after me you’re nothing but worthless, but the truth is– you’re not. And I’m going to tell you why. The why. Every letter of the why. W for Weight. You keep your weight down because they called you fat once. You don’t look pretty because you don’t feel pretty, that’s the thin line, right? A thigh gap to fill your insecurities, but repeat after me– they don’t know pretty until they’ve stayed up as late as you. They don’t know pretty until they’ve looked into the mirror with tears falling while you’re crying for help– crying isn’t pretty, no. But your trying. The very act of surviving your surge of fears. The he’s coming back to get me. I can’t do this alone. I can’t do this anymore. I just want it to go away. I’m tired of this life. The w is why I love you. The weight you’ve put into my smiling, the beginning of the why is that I love that you’re never going to fall back down just because the weight of this shit is too heavy. You are the why. H for Hope. Even though you stay up late to drink your perfections away because they once said that you’re nothing but a complete waste of time. Even though you take painkillers to kill pain that just won’t leave because we just can’t take it while it’s getting late… your eyes are heavy, but your soul just won’t let you sleep. You’re always in the worst mood, but even then… when you’re trying to calm me down, when you’re trying to make me smile even if you’re bleeding from your wrists, and when you’re trying to not be a writer but a few honest quotes about staying strong and keep going slips out… you’re the definition for hope that they don’t put into the dictionary. The fact that you’ve survived every noose must mean something. You’ve been close, you’ve edited those letters, you’ve rewritten, you’ve tried to press send– but they never make it to the inbox and you never really never, and you’re still fucking breathing. You’re still here. You’re still existing. You sill matter. That gives me that solid hope. That iron hope. That lava flow that’ll create fertile ground one day even if it’s impossible until a million years kind of hope. I know that deep inside of those scars, lodged into your brain… there sleeps a person that’ll break out. A person that’s going to smile one day. A genuine one. You are dying, we all are… but Shane also said, you are not dead. So keep on trying. It does matter. And that darling… that’s the h. You are my hopeful. You are my hopes and dreams, so before you rip into your skin again, know that you are loved. You do matter. You’re going to survive this too. All of it. You are living in the middle of this heart attack at a such a young age, your youth isn’t faded yet… you’re just an old bandaid that needs to be removed, beneath that though… the scab will heal. You will heal. And the last part of the why. The last thing is and will always be you. You’re not much of anything from what you’ve been telling me. You don’t feel like you’re going to make it by the end of this week. I’ve been listening to your struggles for half a year and you’re still here and I’m still listening. I’m a really shitty friend. I don’t give out much but more poetry. I write really fast, so if the weather is grey, at least my poetry is consistent. And yeah, our feelings are busted, but that heart of yours just won’t die out. You don’t know anything about a u-turn, you just know how to keep going. I know that time heals all wounds, and fuck, it’s taking so damn long… but if it’s any consolation… some constellations are never seen if the lights are on because of the monsters underneath our bed, some thoughts creep into our smile– you never learned how to laugh without a shy curve to it, you never learned how to love without breaking with your own heart, and you never learned how to be gentle without the rough… that just goes to say– life has fucked you over more than ten times, but you’re still resolved. Whether you like it or not, whether you admit it or not… you are the why. The weight of your hope keeps me sane and if it means anything at all… I’m glad that you didn’t send me those suicide letters. I’m happy that I don’t have to send it to that one friend. I’m thankful that you’re still here… and yes, you’re struggling, but if you had an easy life, if your parents loved you, if that guy never ruined you, and if those scars weren’t all over your body… you might not be as brave as you are, you’re a flower that still tries to bloom even after being removed from the soil and even after the drought, and even after the crying and even after the dying– you’re alive. My dear, that must mean something. I don’t know why you’ve been tested so often, but if you’re still trying, I have to believe that life is worth every damn battle. Your smile has been through wars, but indeed– you’re still smiling. Best days, bad days, shit. You’ve been through some things, and I’m so damn proud of you for putting up with it. And although they don’t call you pretty behind your back. And yeah, so what? You speak your fucking mind. And yeah, you’re not perfect… but at least you made it this far. At least you know the why. And at least one day, you’ve got a story to tell.
— This is the why.