Maybe.

We are coming home tonight. 

You wanted me to look back and remember the good. 

But all I see is the good and it's doing me bad. 

I see the words written in crimson ink down the side of your arm that begged for help. 

I always wanted to be like you, so easily masked. 

I always wanted to hide my emotions, but I could never pull myself to do so. 

To hide my face from the only thing that could give me hope was suicide. 

God, the fact that the thought had even crossed my mind makes my heart sink lower than the boy in church caught playing with his Legos. 

Building a future for himself, to only have it smashed by the ones he loved. 

So maybe our misery is more long term than we thought. 

Maybe when we first fell off our bike, we picked up the helmet, but not our broken hearts. 

Maybe when we scraped our arm on the playground, we took our shirts off to observe the wound, but we forgot to put it back on, and we sit on the side, cold and alone as we bleed to death, watching everyone else play with each other and go about their happy lives. 

Maybe when we failed the test, and everyone else passed, we forgot to retake it, and thought of nothing but the failure. 

Maybe when she gave you that letter, you wrote back instead of burning it. 

Maybe when she cheated, you didn't forgive and that's where your faults are. 

The heartbreak we feel isn't max broman's fault. It isn't Lindsey who keeps you back. 

The therapist didn't make that choice for you. 

We are all the deciders of our own fate.

The past is the past. And all we can do is live with it.