I’ve been sitting here for over an hour now. The view will probably be etched in my memory forever. The distant lights and sounds of traffic is my own beautiful rock concert tonight. Stubbing my cigarette out, I mentally calculate how many I have left. Yes, I smoke but that’s not my confession. Relieved I have enough to last me the night, I settle in, ignoring the cold touch of the tiles.

So my confession is about what most girls have been through:

I’ve been here an hour going over my thoughts and memories. There’s a nagging thought in the back of my head that I’m wasting time. There’s work left to be done. Then again, maybe after tonight, none of that work would really matter. It’s amazing how people can run work themselves to death and never ask themselves why. I wonder if anybody else has nights like these. If they don’t, then I wonder why I think like this.

Let’s go back to last Friday night. I’m sitting behind you on your motorcycle. My eyes are closed and my head’s resting on your shoulders. I’m at peace. It’s been a long while since I’ve felt content so I appreciate every moment of it. We never really said goodbye but I don’t think I would’ve been able to anyway. My eyes begin to well up. Cigarettes to the rescue. But no this confession isn’t about you.

I remember their laugh. The endless, meaningless topics we talked about. Our conversations which would make others question our sanity. I wonder where they are now. Do they think of me as much as I think of them? I don’t blame them for tonight. Life happens. People get busy and sometimes we’re left out. I miss them. I miss my friends but that’s not my confession either.

I’ve never been the light of the party. I think I’ve always liked sitting on sidelines and watching others. I think I’ve always preferred helping people than asking for help. Tonight, I need to deal with this. I need to accept that I will always be entering and leaving the lives of others but never to stay. The tears are flowing freely now. Should I reach out to someone? Would they even care? Would it be fair to dump all my problems on them? I pick my phone up, unlock it, and set it back down again while shutting my eyes against the stream of tears.

I’m sitting seven stories above the ground. It would be easy to end things now. People pontificate, “Suicide is selfishness.” Others go a step further to call it cowardice. Cowardice has nothing to do with it – suicide takes considerable courage. I’m still trying to work that courage up. That is my confession.


Sometimes thing works out though. Sometimes there are people who send a simple text. My phone buzzes. Squinting my eyes at the bright screen, I read the message.



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