You, dying.

It's more than living, you tell me. 

It's dying. Not just dying. Not just empty.

Dying fantastically. Dying in the gayest way possible. 

Dying your way. Dying when you choose. 

Dying as you and not as what they made you into. 

Dying before tenth grade because you can't take one more day of math class. 

Dying right before my eyes, dying alone. 

Telling me you will. Any moment now. 

Telling me late at night. Then waking up in the morning alive and cursing it. 

You'll really do it this time, you say. 

Get help or I will, I reply. 

You don't reply. I imagine you sitting there wondering 

If these will be your last moments of living 

And thinking them to be glorious. It's 11:11pm and we're wide awake

And you tell me you're making a wish to die

In the most glorious and beautiful way possible

While I am wishing that your wish won't come true. 

It will.