Life and Death

Hands grip

Knuckles white

Trying to reach

That end light.

Sitting on the hard hard floor

Staring at a far away door,

Wishing there was less, or more.

Teeth clenched

Breathing tight

So you know,

It’s not alright.

So sincere

Not a tear

Knowing death is near.

There is something horrible about your hands being the only thing separating a cloth from tightening around the neck of someone attempting to take their own life. To pull away with all your might, only to have them work harder in return. To see the look in their eyes. As they look through you. Your words meaning nothing to them as you cry for them to stop, to listen to you. But they see through your clichés and they see your fear. They are in control and control is something they don’t have. You are pushed away but you can’t stop because if you did, if you would have blood on your hands. It’s a struggle between life and death.
(after note: this is based on something that happened at work)