You looked so fragile.
In my imagination
you lied broken on a hospital bed
filled with charcoal
to keep your pulse from fading

how ironic you said
when you could speak again.
how your nickname was “charcoal”
and that was what they used to save you
from all those pills you took

the pills you took when you decided
that a death by your own trembling hand
was better than the prison that your parents
kept you inside, waiting for you to become
who they wanted

you’d swallowed your sadness for so long
letting your liver be poisoned
in little pills as they told you you weren’t enough
and carved lines into your soul
as they showed their love was conditional

I wonder how many pills it took
to overwhelm your tiny body
and leave you lying on the floor
calling for help as you felt yourself fade, even
desperate enough to go to your parents

I wonder if your parents still thought
in that horrible moment, that you were still
a freak like they always treated you.
I wonder if they, for even a moment
realized that it was their fault

“I’m sorry”; a text you’d sent at 3am.
We didn’t know what had happened
didn’t even know if you were alive
for a whole horrible day,
black on my calendar; burnt in my memory

we had called to see if you were okay
and were met with your parents crying,
screaming that it was our fault
for changing you and poisoning your mind
like you’d poisoned your liver

but we thought we were what kept you going
every time your parents called you
evil, and wrong, for being who you are.
Trying to kill the you they didn’t like
until you tried to kill you

I imagined so many things the days it all happened:
a fight that proceeded you running to your room,
a feeling of aloneness and like tomorrow wouldn’t come.
So you texted…
when none of us, your charcoal, were awake