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What is it that you have written on your hand?  The blood has run thick from your wrists; I can’t tell completely what it says.  “God,” I see that much.  God?  How could you have possibly been thinking of God?  What anger will I find in the remainder of that message?  If only I could read it, but the blood is far too thick and the operator said not to disturb your body.  That body, that corpse, not yet cold.  That was me, or so everyone said.  You and I, we were like twins.  Too much alike for some people’s taste, but as far as I can remember we were never headed this way.  Yes, we both at times felt down, and who even knew why?  Who ever always knows why they feel down?  Sometimes you just feel that way.
People would ask us though, in our times of quiet, what was wrong.  What answer did you ever give?  It was always the same as mine.  “Nothing,” would be our reply, “there’s nothing wrong.  I just don’t have anything to say.”
What was there to say?  Would they have understood if you had spoken a million words of anger and regret?  In this way I knew that we were so much the same, all the pain that we caused ourselves.  All the self-hatred we held inside.  We were simpatico, you and I, when it came to these things.  Still though, why did you choose this?  Could it have really been the last logical recourse to this condition?
Self-doubt, we both felt it.  If nothing else we could have bonded over our feelings of inadequacy.  Our inside joke; it was us, and nobody else knew it as we as we did.  Thinking about it now, it wasn’t that funny.
FUCK!  The joke, it was in our heads.  Everything was in our heads, and when something new came along it didn’t push anything else out.  It just built upon what was already there, blocking a little more the air from getting in.  It was keeping that fresh feel, that new perspective from destroying the old feelings of self-pity and grief.  Fresh air is vital for the body, more so for the mind.  You didn’t kill yourself.  These wounds didn’t kill you.  You suffocated behind that wall.  You were trapped.  I guess more so than me.
Damn you, speak to me!  Tell me what you were thinking.  Tell me so I can see it coming.  Tell me so I could have a chance to stop it.
She said to not disturb the body, but how could they tell?  How would they know if I were to wipe some of the blood away, just enough to see what you were thinking?  They won’t know, or even care, would they?  They’ll write it up in the report and it will mean nothing more to anyone.  Except maybe, maybe some quack psychiatrist who comes along looking for something to study and, “Ah ha,” he has it; the secret to my best friends demise.  Some babble-brain bullshit that declares him out of his mind, and we can all thank the great doctor for showing us who he really was.  Obviously those who really knew him really didn’t know him at all.
I knew you, I knew your mind.  I have your mind and I know, well, I know better than some “doctor”.  It seems to me I knew you my entire life.  You were always there, since we were little.  You were right next to me in any situation.  Like in sixth grade, when I got my first kiss from Sally White, you kissed her friend Jamie just to stay at pace with me.  Man was Jamie ugly, and oh how you hated her, but to be there with me you closed your eyes and did it.  Whenever I got in a fight, no matter if you were scared you would just close your eyes and be right there in it.  Every step of the way you made sure you were there with me.
I feel kind of bad now, almost ashamed that I can’t be there for you now.  Guilty of course that I wasn’t there for you before you did this, but that I’m not ready to join you in it yet.  I mean, I see what you see still.  My mornings are never bright and my days never seem to be that cheerful.  Hope seems far off; damn near invisible.  I’m sure that’s what you were thinking in the time leading up to this; we talked about it enough.  I suppose in a way it was my fault for not at least trying to make it all seem better.  I suppose that in my desire to make you feel like you weren’t alone I left out the most important reason why I haven’t ended up where you are now.
Most days seem dark, and the bad is something that I focus on far too much.  Opportunities have been lost and regret clouds the prospects of the future.  Hope for a brighter day is something I’ve never been good at finding.  Yet, in an odd way I have been able to find something; something that I should have told you about as soon as it came to me.  There is a kind of glimmer that exists even in the world we let ourselves fall in to.  There is a hope for hope.
There is a hope that someday, if only for a moment I will feel that overwhelming joy that I've only ever read about.  That moment of pure happiness; like blinding truth.  Something that I know for sure and always and not even my own cynicism can disprove.  God, you wrote of God.  That’s where my hope for hope lies.  I hope that I’ll feel what others have told me about.  As of yet, there has been no revelation.  No grand discovery of his existence, and I have to tell you man that this doesn’t help me much.
I know what I'm asking of God, but what was your message.  I can’t disturb the body, but your body has disturbed me for far too long.  Sorry man, I need to clean your hand a little.
“God, save me…”