I want to grab her by the shoulders and shake her
until I hear all the loose gears in her head rattle,
screaming at her,
"Everyone feels like jumping off a bridge at some point in their life.
Everyone struggles with the sudden impulse to drive through the guardrail, just to see what would happen.
This does not make you different.
Your life should not be remembered and marked by the number of pills you can swallow.
Your suicide will not make you special.
Your mental illness is not a sickness. It is merely your inability to cope with the problems that everyone faces.
You are fifteen years old.
You cannot possibly be this broken."
But instead, I hold her in my arms,
and I tell her that I love her.
I tell her that I want her to stay, to continue to walk this earth in hopes that she might someday wake up, and feel better.
I am terrified of her potential.
She smells like destruction.
I can hear the clock ticking,
but I cannot prevent the detonation.