You see her hands, torn and bloody

If only someone would notice just

How callused the rest of her life is

If only the shy boy that slips cards

Into the folds of her locker

(The sweet messages that she never sees)

Would wonder where she hides during lunch

If only her best friend would come over unannounced

And witness her set of blades,

Gleaming a little too bright

Cleaned a little too vigorously

If only her mother would pressure

Beg to know what lies in the folds

Of her daughter's intimate mind.

If only someone would profess just how much they care.

If only they would clap her on the shoulder, smooth a hand

Over her long, dyed-to-hide-the-secrets hair.

If only someone besides her hungry cat

Would touch her.

Would rub against her.

Would ask her for attention, for help.

She might not be where she is.

She might now be committing suicide for the ump-teenth time.

"There are so many ways to commit suicide without dying dying."

She read that once. A book by a man. She dreamed that the man

Wrapped his arms around her too-skinny waist

And begged her not to consider jumping again.

Begged her to forget the hurtful words of her peers.

Consoled her and inveigled her to ignore the loneliness burrowing in her soul.

In her heart.

These are all the things that she needs.

But she needs to look over the balcony one last time.

She needs to feel the upheaval of blood and life

Rushing towards her heart and her throat.

"How bad would it be? How bad would it really be if I just…fell…"

No one could ever answer a question like that.

And for her, no one ever will.