It’s a crushing realization that nobody on the subway platform cares if I am about to die, that no one will try to talk me out of it, that they all have jobs to be at and homes to return to. Why does nobody care about me?

I know why nobody cares; I have chosen a place where nobody cares, a place of headaches, morning commutes, and hurried, impersonal coffee purchases. I don’t want to be in this place anymore. I don’t want to die; I just can’t live like this. I feel the plastic bag of syringes shift in my backpack as if on cue.

They’ll say I was high when I fell in front of the train. They’ll say only 10% of junkies make it out alive. They’ll say “it’s an epidemic!” They’ll say we need better programs in the schools. They’ll say my parents came to identify my body and couldn’t even recognize their own daughter. They’ll say a lot of things. They won’t say that I was in pain right before I died. They won’t say that I was trying to get better.

I have learnt

My days are Their 

Nights. From the Quiet,

I listened to Them 

Sometimes. 

They scream at night - 

Others - 

Twisted beneath layers

Of blankets and 

Deadly fantasies. 

They whisper of

Nightmares and feeling

That they are drowning,

Even in the safety of their

Warm bed. That they are 

Being ripped apart by madness

And dipped into God's bowl

Of Insanity. That They are being torn to shreds

By monsters They themselves conjure. They dream their pain. 

And They heave relief

Each end, each curtain call,

Waking up to sunlit mornings. 

I don't.