tell me.
 tell me, how many nights did you stare up at the ceiling, studying the imperfections in the drywall until the sun started peeking through the trees?
 how many breaths of oxygen did your lungs take in it to get your heart to stop racing? 
tell me all of the many times you choked back the sobs and told yourself that you couldn’t hold on anymore.
tell me, how many times did you reach for the razor but refrained because you told promised that the last time was your last time? 
tell me how many times you inhaled the familiar burning sensation of weed because people said the temporary high would help you deal with a permanent problem.
tell me, how many of those little whiskey bottles did you stash in your closet because feeling nothing was better than feeling anything? 
tell me about all the times you cut class to sit in the bathroom, a public sanctuary that reeked of chemicals and the overpowering sweet smell of soap.
 tell me, how many time did you almost come to me for help? 
because let me tell you all of the times I was there, waiting for you.
but you never showed.