“Everything you write is shit,” she told me. “Pure standard fluff. Shit.”

            Looking back I can’t remember why I listened to her. I didn’t know her name. I identified her only as “that pissy chick from my Creative Writing class.” She fit the tortured black clad chain-smoking poet bill perfectly.

            “You’re nothing but shit,” she said, and I remember wishing she wouldn’t keep repeating it.

            “What do you mean?” I replied, like only a moron would.

            “What do you know about art? About poetry? Huh? Nothing. Not shit.” And it was obvious she loved the way the word rolled off her tongue. “And that’s why you suck. No one wants to hear your stupid drivel about sunsets or first love. Because it isn’t real.”

            “Sunsets aren’t real?” I replied, offended. I recalled the poem she was talking about, and while I’m not really too crazy about it it’d taken me a whole goddamn hour to finish.

            She sneered at me—obviously this chick was above rolling eyes—and said, “Of course they are. But whatever emotion you were trying to attach to that stupid poem, and I use that term very loosely, was bullshit.”

            She was right, I know. I remember not being too fond of her poetry (Too gory for my taste. Something that would prove very funny—ironic, maybe—later), but it certainly evoked more emotion, response, whatever, than my crap about sparkling stars and pretty girls did.

            “Why don’t you quit wasting our time in this class,” she said, leaning closer. Her smoky scent filled my nostrils. Her dark brown eyes flashed at me, the eyeliner applied and never washed off smeared underneath. “No one wants to hear another piece of shit from you. And if I have to I’ll gouge my eyes out. Or yours.”

            She walked away after flashing me what probably passes as a smile from her. I hated her, but I knew everything she said was right. And I desperately wanted to prove her wrong.

            “Poetry is all around us!” the teacher told us. He wanted us to “embrace it” or something dumb like that. So I went the predictable nature route while my classmates went the predictable teen angst route. I think my teacher appreciated the break from all the black roses tears and blood shit everyone else was churning out.

            That certainly doesn’t mean I was any good.

            I went home that day and locked myself in my room intending to produce a poem so amazing it would break your heart. I sat at my desk for a good three hours before giving up. I was hopeless. Poetry was not for me, writing was not for me. Art was not for me.  I contained nothing beautiful or insightful or even interesting. I decided I’d drop Creative Writing, take my F, and scoff to anyone who asked that poetry is for fags anyway.

            But I knew I wouldn’t. It’s not that I have this paralyzing fear of failure or anything. Of course not.

            I put the blank page aside and went to bed, praying inspiration would strike in a dream or something poetic like that.

            And it didn’t, of course. In Creative Writing the next day I sat timid while everyone shared eagerly. My classmates readily praised each other, secretly hating the other’s work.

            “Would you like to share David?” the teacher asked. It was almost like a plea to hear my fluff—excuse me, shit—after all the drama he’d been forced to sit through. Or maybe he just needed a laugh. Not only did I not have anything to share, but the smirk on that ashtray scented bitch’s face prevented me from doing anything other than shaking my head.

            “Having trouble?” the teacher asked. “It’s okay. Go out there and create something beautiful. Poetry is all around us,” he said, smiling encouragingly.

            This is where the story starts.

            I walked out of the class with something beautiful on repeat in my head. It was my mission to create the most amazing thing my class had ever heard.

            That’s not what the teacher said but I knew he was thinking it.

            After school that day I went to work at the Teen Suicide Hotline I volunteered at. See, my cousin Rita had killed herself when she was fifteen. We weren’t like best friends or anything, but I saw how it fucking killed my aunt and I figured I could try to stop some other people from feeling that way.

            I know, I’m a fucking saint, right? (Hold your applause, please. You’ll be glad you did.)

            The line was really busy that day, I remember. Maybe there was something in the school lunches or water fountains depressing everyone, or something. I was sort of ignoring my phone, too distracted trying to find some beauty around me, tapping my pen against a pad of paper.

            “Answer the goddamn phone,” the guy next to me hissed before answering his own with a calm voice. He rolled his eyes at whatever the person was saying. “Don’t say that,” he said. “You have so much to live for, I’m sure.” I watched him as he finished the phone call, saving a life that probably wasn’t going to be lost anyway.

            “I don’t know how much longer I can deal with this,” he said to me with a “you know what I mean?” look. “I only fucking signed up for this for how great it’ll look on my transcript. These fucking suicidal morons are driving me nuts.” He announced he was taking a break. He needed a cigarette.

            Addiction, I wrote, thinking of the Creative Writing girl. She smoked too. Maybe there was some sort of code I could crack to find this beauty and meaning and poetry I was supposed to be seeing.

            I answered the phone after the ring violently pierced my thoughts. “I’m fucking sick of this,” a girl spat immediately after my greeting. “I can’t take anything anymore.”

            “What’s the problem?”

            “I wanna die, you moron. And I’m going to do it no matter what, so there’s no convincing me, okay?”

            “You called us. Maybe you don’t really want to die.”

            “Nope. I called because I had to fucking announce this to someone, and no one else is around so—”

             “You didn’t call a friend?” I asked. At this point I was more intrigued by this than I was trying to help the situation.

            “Fuck friends. I hate everyone,” she said. “People are so repulsive and stupid and hypocritical. It makes me sick to be human.”           

            “Really?”

            “Yeah. Everyone’s so fucking narcissistic they think everything you do is some plea for attention. As if you’re so special I need to slit my wrists so you’ll notice me. Fuck you. I don’t want your attention. I want the fuck out of here.”

            “Yeah,” I sort of breathed. Narcissistic, I scribbled. Attention. Beautiful.

            “So. Thanks for listening or whatever.”

            “No problem.”

            “I’m going to go die now.”

            “Wait. I want to…I mean. Can I watch?”

            I promise, swear to you, I don’t know what made me say it. It’s pretty selfish really, but she was inspirational, I guess. Plus, I figured I could stall her enough to maybe change her mind. So I’d get to hear her crazy inspirational ramblings and possibly save her life. It was a good thing.

            “Are you serious?” she whispered.

            “Yeah. I promise. Where are you?”

            “You’re going to bring someone with you. From a mental hospital or something.”

            “Swear to God, I’m not.”

            “I don’t believe in God.”

            “Then I swear on myself or something. Just…please?”

            And she agreed. She gave me her address and I made her promise to wait until I was done with my job. Two hours passed and it was time for me to leave. I caught the bus to the girl’s house, trying to figure out exactly what the hell I was doing.

            I came up blank.

            I got off on Green Street and knocked on the door of the house with the numbers 372 on it. A small girl answered and looked me in the eyes for a brief moment before looking down at her feet.

            “You the guy?” she asked, and I nodded.

            “Hey. I’m David.”

            “Julie,” she replied, and let me in. She closed the door and we stood in front of it awkwardly silent. But really, what does someone say at a moment like that? “So you’re killing yourself? Don’t mind me, I’ll be right here watching.”

            “Why do you wanna see this?” Julie asked. “Do you do this to everyone who calls?”

            “No. I don’t know. I’ve never seen anyone die. Except in movies.”

            “And movies don’t count, huh? Sort of sick curiosity you have, David. I guess I should get on with it then.”

            I followed her upstairs to a bathroom. She told me she was going to slice herself up in the bathtub, full of water, so the blood would flow out quicker. “And the mess might be a little easier to clean for my parents. That’s me, always thinking of others.”

            I asked her if maybe we could talk before she got through with it all. She agreed, and said she had to fill up the tub anyway. She sat on the edge of the tub while it filled, and told me about her past attempts to get out of this life.

            “They diagnosed me chronically depressed or some shit and gave me a mess of pills for it. So I never took any and just saved them and then took a whole bunch but my mom found me and they pumped my stomach. One of the weirdest feelings ever, man.”

            “Did your parents put you in a hospital?” I asked, scribbling away at my notepad.

            Julie nodded. “For awhile. They got tired of everyone asking about me though. Sick of me shaming the family. Plus my dad said it wouldn’t do any good. Smartest thing he’s ever said.”

            She pushed up a sleeve to show me her scars. “Like practice, I guess. I never really got around to pressing deep enough but it was sort of addicting.” She pushed up the other sleeve to reveal a horribly burnt arm. “Oh man, that was a brilliant plan. Poured fucking lighter fluid on my arm and lit a match. It burnt up my arm and side pretty bad, but not exactly the way I wanted to go. My dad was like, ‘We’ve had it. If you want to die, just fucking die. Be selfish.’ When it’s not selfish at all for me to take my own life. It belongs to me. Plus, I’m doing everyone who doesn’t like me a favor.” She stopped the water and felt it with her hand. “Perfect.”

            Selfish. Selfless. Perfect. Beautiful, I wrote. “You sure you want to see?” she asked, stepping into the tub still clothed. I nodded and she picked up a razor she’d placed on the soap dish and said, “Goodbye, then.” And went to work on her arm.

            I had to close my eyes. I really hated blood, hated pain. But I knew if I wanted to witness something real with meaning and emotion and beauty, almost, behind it, I’d have to watch. I cracked open one eye and saw this girl—she couldn’t have been more than fourteen—going away at her arm like it was her worst enemy. She wasn’t flinching, hissing, nothing. She had a concentrated look on her face. She pressed the razor over old wounds and created new ones. She cut up her burnt brown and pink arm to a disgusting bloody red mess. “I’m feeling woozy,” she said to me with a smile. “Do you think it’s enough?” She didn’t wait for my answer and cut herself a few more times before closing her eyes and laying back into the water. She kept her big eyes open, and folded her arms over her chest in what must have been a painful effort. Her curly brown hair floated around her head and the water was already turning pink.

            I couldn’t think of anything to write. I stared at her, already dead in my mind. She floated peacefully as the water changed shades, as if the blood was watercolor paint. I whispered a “Thank you,” like a moron would do, and got the fuck out of there.

            I was repulsed, with myself, with what I had just seen. But part of me was enchanted. I had just witnessed a death. Something emotive and real. Something beautiful. And I knew I couldn’t write more until I saw something that incredible again.

            After that experience everything sort of clicked into place. I was finding poetry all around me. Two girls fighting in the hallway over a boy. Hair ripping and screaming and swearing. Beautiful, I wrote. Screaming, scratching, tearing, hatred, love. An anorexic girl passing out at the mall. Brittle, crumble, weak, shattered. A boy on the news shooting his teacher over a racist remark. Authority, prejudiced, violence, loud, shot.

             Everything awful inspired me. These people were all beautiful and poetic in their insanity to me. I’d scribble random words and phrases that came to mind and put them together into lines and stanzas. But nothing ever seemed perfect enough and I had to keep looking. I continued to work at the Suicide Hotline, every now and then convincing some crazy kid to let me watch them die. I saw a guy my own age put a gun in his mouth and pull the trigger. I watched a girl jump off the top of her high school. I saw a kid take every pill in his mother’s bathroom and follow it with the fullest bottle he could find in her liquor cabinet. Watching them die, watching people be harmed, became my own addiction. Sure it was okay for me to watch them murder themselves. They were obviously the crazy ones, not me. Nothing abnormal at all about watching people get totally fucked up, or shoot themselves, or drown to death. Nothing crazy about watching this all so I could write the most perfect thing ever. Nothing crazy about scribbling word after word on my notepad, and when that ran out, on my arms, legs, wherever.  Nothing insane about me going home every day and locking myself in my room and not eating so I can focus on this one fucking poem that is so goddamn hard to write.

            Nothing fucked up about it at all.

            I was working at the hotline, trying to transcribe the mess on my arms onto spare sheets of paper they had lying around. I answered the phone as I was writing explosion with a less than comforting, “What?”

            A girl sobbed over the line. “I can’t take this anymore.”

            “What’s the matter?” I asked, cursing silently at how many words were unreadable due to smudging on my skin.

            “Everyone hates me and I don’t want to keep living like this anymore.”

            “So you’re killing yourself,” I said, and she sniffled.

            “Well, yes. I think. I mean. Aren’t you supposed to be telling me not to?”

            “I don’t think you should stick around if you’re unhappy,” I said, deciding she would be my final source of inspiration. All I needed was one more time, a few more lines.

            “Yes. Yes, you’re right.”

            “How about I come over and talk to you and then you can you know, die or whatever?” I asked. Over time I’d gotten more and more crude about it. No one seemed to mind, really.

            “If you want. I mean. Sure? Why?”

            “No reason, it’ll be fun,” I said with a laugh, and I’m sure she must have been a little scared. She gave me her address after a little persuading and I left to catch the bus even though I wasn’t supposed to leave for another hour. I reached my destination and excitedly went to her house. Just one more time and I was done.

            She opened the door. “Hey, I’m David. Do you mind if I watch?”

            “Watch?”

            “You kill yourself,” I said simply, and she gazed at me horrified. The girl was sort of fat, and she had tear streaks running down her plump face.

            “Are you fucking insane?”

            “Hey, I’m not the one killing myself!” I stepped past her, into her house.

            “You have to get out of here. I’m not killing myself. I changed my mind.”

            This was not part of the plan. “You can’t. I mean. You have to. I need you to.” I noticed the gun she had lying on the bottom of her staircase. “What, you were going to shoot yourself? Good way to go. Just do it, please. You have to,” I pleaded. You aren’t going to believe this, but I swear I didn’t realize what exactly I was saying.

            “Get out of here! You’re crazy!” she shrieked. “I’m going to call 911.”

            “And tell them you invited me over here? Because you did. Don’t be stupid. Remember? You want to die. Everyone hates you. You need to die. I need you to die so I can finish this stupid fucking thing I started, okay?”

            “What are you talking about? Get the fuck away from me!” She yelled. I picked up the gun to hand to her.

            “Please. You want that bullet in your head. You do. You told me so. Just end it please. We’ll both be happy.”

            She was on the floor, sobbing loudly. “Get away!” she wailed, and I waved the gun at her.

            “Death is beautiful,” I said. “Death is real. Death is poetic.” And I pulled the trigger.

            And what a time to realize you’ve been a crazed maniac the entire time. Panicked, I wiped the gun clean on my shirt and placed it in her hands. I left her house and ran the twenty blocks home. I shut myself in my room, too scared to pick up a pen, to look at a piece of paper. I stayed in my room, under my covers, the entire weekend. My mother brought me up food but I couldn’t eat anything. The meat reminded me of Julie, cutting up her flesh. I felt nauseated.

No one found out I’d killed that poor girl. No one found out about all those suicides I’d witnessed.  But imagine having to live with that everyday, worried to death (no pun intended) that someone will find out. I still get the impulse to scribble a line after witnessing something horrible. I still want to create something beautiful, I still know poetry is all around me taunting me with its insanity and suicidal, murderous rage. 

Funny thing, though. I never finished that poem I’d started when I met Julie that day, and was supposed to end with that fat chick. I got crazy writer’s block. Isn’t that a bitch?