A/N: I've seen lots of stories from the other point-of-view so here's a poem from my point-of-view. It's about a two of my best friends. This is for everyone out there who has been through this too.

You think it's a game

Life disposible,

Like those razors you use.

Sharpies they call them

"For coloring myself red"

They think they're clever

They laugh at it, together

both wishing it was funny.

I don't even pretend to laugh.

Sometimes I feel like saying

"Pull yourself out of it!

Get over yourself!"

But I know she can't.

Or can she?

I've done everything I can

I've listened.

I've given advice.

I've pitied.

I've pleaded.

I've yelled.

I've cried.

Nothing works.

Am I a failure?

Or is it her?

My mother says

"It's not your job to save the world."

But what if no one else does?

Then is it my job?

Her arms

Red, bloody, scars

You want to turn away

It hurts to look

But you have to be a friend

Being a friend means you'll make her stop

The grown-ups always say that

"friends don't let friends do that…"

But why should that be my job?

Why don't parents do their job,

and take care of their kids?

If I asked her,

Pick me or the sharpies.

What would she say?