To Whom It May Concern:

You don't know my name because I don't have one anymore. You gave me one though. To a lost girl forgotten. Something doesn't mean anything unless it has a name. You call me suicide.

I am the one who lurks in the corner of your teenager's bedroom. Slowly turning up the melancholy music in their stereo. I see them with their fist clenched until their knuckles are white. Yet you ignore them when they cry.

"Life's not fair!" They say.

I am in their ear as they sob and I whisper sweet nothings of oblivion to them.

I am the forbidden solace to your spouse. As I hand them the shiny razor they cut themselves so deeply with. A cry for help. I listen to their silent screams.

"Someone help me!"

These pleas for acknowledgement always go unheard, unnoticed, except for me. I always listen. You ignore.

Yet I am the one to blame for taking them away from you. I am the one who forced them into this. Well, I am here to inform you, you can't rape the willing.

I played the songs, lent the ear, handed over the razor, and caressed the tears. They turned to you, but you turned your back to them. So please get the finger out of my face. Stop with all the hate mail. I am here to stay.

I see when you are scared. When you see a little flicker of me inside yourself. I am in everyone and if I choose I will not be denied either. So here is your suicide note.

Love, me.

© 2006 The Elysium