Suzanne Young

It was in that small lack of movement that Poet could see true horror. A mirror held up to the human race and how it can be manipulated. Ruined.

...some things are better left in the past. And true things are destined to repeat themselves.

We__e run out of comforting things to say.

I'm out, surrounded in dark. But in the distance there is a small glow, a tiny light. Suddenly I'm standing alone, the space starting to brighten as the light grows.

After all, suicide is contagious.

He was surrounded by love, and he used that power to create.

I have to live if I want to be remembered.

But I can't rewrite history. I can only live with what's left.

His angry expression softens, and then he shoves my shoulder playfully. "Hey!" I push him back, to which he retaliates until I'm finally smiling. I love how we can do that--break through the misery to always find each other.

It's taken me all this time, all this loss, to realize what really matters is now.

You matter.