“I wasn’t supposed to be your savior,
but you were the one
that put me on that pedestal.”
Don’t you remember the hell you put me through? You told me that day, as the snow dusted the ground, that you didn’t see a reason to live. That you wanted to be dead. It didn’t matter to me that I was tired. Or that school was in session the following day. I drove to you, that night, and convinced you to go to the hospital. I sat there, long after midnight, in that dim waiting room for someone to tell me they’d helped you. You see, you were alive, and that was all that mattered. But later, you told me that helping you was worse. Because I failed to make you believe you should live. How is that right? To put that kind of pressure on a sixteen-year-old girl? I wasn’t supposed to be your savior, but you were the one that put me on that pedestal. And then you burned it down, with me still on it.
So yes, your words sliced like knives. They burned like acid. And that was my reward for trying to be your friend.
© Sarah Doughty
This was written in response to the #NovemberNotes challenge. Today’s inspiration was Words As Weapons by Birdy.