I met a boy in school who stares at the inside
of his eyelids more than the teacher. His elbow
touches the paper more than his pencil. I notice
because I used to do this. I used to put my head
down at every possible opportunity. Not bored
or lazy, just tired. Just unmotivated. Just
lacking a purpose to stay alive.

See, I know the statistics.
I know that there are 31 people in this classroom.
1 in 5 people in this nation will suffer from a mental illness.
1 in 4 teenagers will contemplate suicide.
1 in 5 people in each room are affected or will
be affected by a mental disorder.

See, that means that there are at least 5 other people
in this room who know how it feels to never
want to wake up in the morning. There are 5
other people in this room who know
what I’m feeling every time I walk past an overpass,
or a pier, or a bridge. Somebody who knows
that panicking feeling when they’re left
alone with a cabinet full of medication.

There is somebody in this room who is
so sure of the “how” and “why” of their
death that all they’re just waiting for is the “when”.
There are people who have wasted so much time
planning out how to die that they haven’t figured
out how to live.

What I know is that one hand is enough
to count the number of people who want to die in this room,
and that is one hand too many.