i remember when she showed me her scars,
she removed her purple finger gloves,
and there were seven, uneven scars,
her skin still pink and raw from her most recent lapse,
faded white scars underneath the new ones,
we counted them, and i said sorry.
sorry for all the pain she didn't deserve,
sorry for all the times she cut, and i wasn't there,
and the times she felt like she was alone.
i thought her insomnia was a sign of bravery,
something to brag about, almost
but now i realise, 4 am was fear,
4 am was loneliness,
4 am was the time when you were the most empty.
i asked, "does it hurt?"
she replied, "of course it does. that's the point."
i kept a brave face, telling myself it was for her,
but i thanked god that I was an exceptional liar,
because i'd never tasted fear as tragic as hers.
now i watch as i lose my friends to the same demons,
more informed, but still just as helpless,
and i tell them, with a breaking heart: i'm sorry.
and they tell me: i'm sorry too.