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I see our history sometimes and I still feel the same paralysis about what happened. I see you as I watch a comedy show, the audience laughing as a method of suicide is depicted to illustrate how a character feels about an off-putting part of his day.

I thought of you as the audience started to laugh. It wasn’t funny, it was disturbing. They were in on a joke that would not go home with them, while I was still unearthing what it meant to have spent that time with you.

In that moment, I was back on your bed trying to pry the rope off your neck. I caught you early. You laughed like it was a joke. There was no clapping or audience, just the two of us.

I was sure when you told me about your knife, how you had kept it and used it to hurt yourself. I was sure when you let me hold you as you sobbed on a rainy day, recalling all the things that brought you to that place.

I was sure when I took your knife home and put it away in my drawer, a reminder for later. I was sure that we could get you back.

I was sure.


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