Rubbed Raw: Depression and Suicide, from the Eyes of a Lover

Trigger warning: Suicide/self-harm/depression

One: The Meeting

It’s never like it is in the movies, is it.
Except it was, wasn’t it?
Just like a high-school rom-com gone wrong,
everything went right, didn’t it?

Except it didn’t… did it

A High school history class turned hell,
you turned around and asked me for…
something. I can’t remember,
well
Not to sound cheesy, but I was caught up in your eyes.
And, not to seem sleezy but I know you were too.

Time seemed to stop, as we met each other’s gaze,
both of our glasses reflecting the other’s
look of speechlessness
of awe
of
Love at first sight doesn’t exist, does it?
Because that’s what it felt like, it did…
Didn’t it?
Everything about us has made me question it all.
It’s never like it is in the movies, is it?

Two: The Beginning

I remember to this day when our eyes met
in Mr. M’s monotonous… social studies class
the nice, quiet boy in front of me
intrigued and beguiled me with wild
stories of somber songbirds
and strange sketches
of life

Fast forward a
year

and the nice quiet boy is in front of me
shaking
heart beating, hands trembling, head spinning
hands in my hair, on my waist, up my back
first kiss
                  first love
                                                      first boyfriend
Ultimate happiness, tumbling down the rabbit hole
of intense emotions that nobody can handle
last kiss
first kiss
                         last love
                                                      only love
when you’re dating death things
get intense quickly
things are forever
but be careful what you wish for
my one and only, always and forever
forever is
much
much
shorter
than you think,
my love

Three: Us

my broken soul, and your broken heart
fit together in perfect harmony
like your hand in mine
among other things…

slowly you opened,
revealed, blossomed, bloomed
and showed me the colourful whirlwind behind the plain black square glasses

But things are never how they are in the movies, right?

and that black cloud I lifted came back again, didn’t it?

long days and longer nights wore you down till there was nothing left
of the smiley, happy, kind, laughing boy I once met
in Mr. M’s monotonous boring hot history class

just a shell of the beautiful soul I locked gazes with that fateful day on a fate-less path

I started to miss you before you were gone
well, you were gone before you… left
first the laugh died
then the love died
when you couldn’t get out of bed
I died a little
then you died.

and. then. you. died.

and… then you… died
                  and
                                    then
                                                      you
                                                                        died
and then you died

Four: The Event

When a man loves his razors more than you, you’re in trouble.
Because no seventeen-year-old should have to have first hand knowledge
of the widow of world war two
complete with PTSD and tattoos
depression and darkness and dank deep memories of
pain.

when a man loves his razors more than you, you’re going to be angry
because when you’re seventeen years old and in love for the first time
you’re supposed to be worried about dances and dates
and whether or not he’s going to spend the night,
not survive it.

because when you’re a teenager and you’re with someone you want forever
you’re supposed to make love in the back seat of your first car
not bleed out in it

because

we loved with a love that was more than love
in a hospital in downtown Vancouver…

so when your man starts loving his razors more than you.

when he looks in your eyes and whispers
“you’re my one and only, always and forever, and I will always love you”

your heart is going to shatter, and you won’t be able to put it together again.

when a man starts loving his razors more than you
you better start loving yourself
more
than
that
man

Five: The Aftermath

Fuck you for loving me the way that you did.
The days you spoiled me, brought me
flowers and foiled my plans to stay
unreachable

Fuck you, for holding me in your arms when I cried, for telling
me you’ll never leave my side.

I hate you

for making me realize I was beautiful,
for looking at me and making me feel like a goddess on land
for holding my hand
and making me fall in love with you.

for those picnics by the ocean,
showing me a world of ecstasy and pleasure, so intense and so beautiful
our hearts caught fire
and when I say fire I mean we
burned.

I hate you for feeling the same way I did
for thinking that we had a chance
for dancing with me while we were engulfed in the flame
of a love so intense it destroyed more joy than it created and every night
I can still see your face
the disgrace
of loving you and being replaced
by something that thinks it can
take. my. place.

unbearable.

please come back to me…