“Look at those marks on that girls
arms! I counted seven. She has tried
to kill herself ‘seven times’ and she is
still just a teenager! There are people
out there with bad health that would
give anything to have her life. I have
no respect for her. She is a complete
waste of life. A total loser!” he said.
“Do you think I am a loser?” I said.
“Of course not.” “Well, when I was
her age the only difference between
me and her was courage. I never could
get the strength to break through my
skin and veins, just sat for hours on
more than seven occasions with a sharp
knife pressed tight against my forearm.
Knowing it was the only way,” I said.
He went silent. What could he say?
He was one of the lucky ones, that didn’t
understand how bad things could actually
get.
Brenton Booth lives in Sydney, Australia. Poetry of his has appeared in New York Quarterly, North Dakota Quarterly, Chiron Review, Main Street Rag, Naugatuck River Review, Heavy Feather Review and Nerve Cowboy. He has two full length collections available from Epic Rites Press. brentonbooth.weebly.com
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