WARNING: Themes of depression, drug addiction, and su*cide. If these will harm you, PLEASE, DO NOT READ!

A man once told me a story
Of when he was my age
Through a series of late nights
Just talking away

He told me of his experiences
He told me of his struggles
He told me how it ended
He told me of how it began

His grades were good
His home was stable
But there was something sinister
Brewing deep within his bones

He admitted for being with the wrong crowd
He admitted that only he could be blamed
But regardless of this
His addictions decayed

What I remember most
Was what his sister requested
"Can you stop being known?"
"Sure, I could die, who knows."

With the rejection he felt
There was near no escape
It was only by the grace of the unknown
That he was able to tell his tale today

But as he told his story
I thought of my own
How were we so similar
But I did not fall?

I never picked up a needle
I never thought about ending my life
But we were neck-deep in depression
And education was our demise

Our grades were good
Our homes were stable
So why was I spared
While he suffered alone?