This poem is deeply personal to me and is about my time I spent as a crisis worker helping people who were experiencing mental health emergencies or attempts of suicide. The subject of this poem is suicide; please know that its contents could be triggering. If you or someone you know and love are experiencing suicidal thoughts or need to reach out, please don't hesitate to talk to someone. You are loved, valued, and worthy.

His eyes, like pools of saphire, were

Kind gestures behind glass frames

Despite the pain in his head

And empty words in his mouth.

He was chisled from happiness at birth;

As a boy he knew sunshine.

His story was bright--it had to be.

But I only got to read

This dark chapter.

The bloodied bookmark

Wrung taught like the rope

He'd hung from the ceiling

To stare at, as if negotiating.

His broken heart

Weary spirit

Tears and all

Opened to me.

He had nowhere to turn.

I did my damndest,

In my paperwork crammed it

Full of good remarks

Cursive hope, like

A Hallmark card

That he could keep

In the pocket of his shirt.

"Reach for me there if you need me."

I thought I could read people like books

But that might have been the very thing

That bereaved him so.

So I helped him write a new page;

One that he might continue.

But it wasn't enough.

The next morning

He was gone

All I could do was stare at his name

In my notebook.