He is wrenched apart from the spine,
Outwards, my hands
Divide him
By all the ways I think I
Can save him,
But all these possibilities that exist
Don’t make it any easier,
To exist,
And his ears bleed as I shout not
To glamorize this sadness,
But he’s not romanticizing anything that
The devils in his mind have
Not already
Written,
But do I hear their beckoning call?
He agrees that depression, in
Its final hour is any-
Thing but beauti-
Ful,
But until the last ruby rain-
Drop
Leaves the clouds in-
Side him by
Wrist,
I can’t say that death wasn’t as
Appealing to him as
Liquor to
Me,
And if I can’t see why some people
Cater to the demons
Inside them,
I don’t deserve to tell him that
His pain-addicted
Brain
Wasn’t as sick as my attempted
Empathy.