She wears only bright colors, rarely ever dark. Her skin is clean, free of scars. I watch her and she never smiles and when she does it's clear it's fake. She does as she's told. She never fights or hides her meds, takes all her classes and speaks when spoken to. She doesn't have an outlet like mine. She writes but never finishes her stories, I've seen her art: her heart is just not in it, it tells no story. Reading. Reading only ever books like 'Through the lookingglass' or 'The wizard of oz'. She reads all day, for as long as she can.
I walk with her to breakfast everyday. I talk to her and she nods back. She listens but she never answers.
One day I asked her why she's different. Why she's never tride to end it all. Why she never hurts herself. Why she is even here. That was the first time I heard her voice. She told me she cares. She cares too much about the people who love her. She could never hurt them like that. She thinks about it: how her suffering would end, how the pain would cease, but she remembers that she'd only cause more. She's here because she's afraid. Afraid of herself. Afraid of what she'd do if she'd never asked for help.
She's a people pleaser, she says. It hurts her but saved her all at once. She trys hard not to think about it. She knows that most of the time she lives in a different reality. She distracts herself with flying monkeys and Cheshire-cats, wizards and knights. She says it's easier to have one's mind somewhere else than to cry over how they feel.

Sunday, April 9th, 2017
- Matthew Blake