Crying in my voicemail box then police saying 'Open up!' But you were gone, Paul had taken you to drink charcoal. I stood there in our empty house, in my interview suit (grey like your sky) And I said "I can't do this." I can't do this. No interview for me, instead I discovered how many hospitals eight million people require (31). Lucky me; you were at the first. I can't do this. I went there, and you were fine, chipper, lying with demeanor and voice. Wires monitoring your heart. There was a question about your liver. And I thought - why should you care? You want to die. Why does it matter how? I can't do this. You cried when I told you how you'd hurt me. I could tell you didn't understand why. And you came home to us to your room strewn with pills and blood to your suicide note, to my disappointment. I can't do this. Anger, resentment, the bitter, hating word, my friend, and I knew it wasn't going to work. I tried, but, I hated you (my friend) for hurting me for imposing your dead and stinking body - but for chance on me. For making me find your pills, your knives. For not being enough. For showing me how little you cared. One night's angst was worth more than friendship. In December, we asked you to leave. I can't do this. Bot oh! the housing search is hard for you. You have school, a cat, you're transgendered, you're abused. You can't live anywhere but here where your school is. All in all, through fights and cautious silences, you stayed five months until May. I can't do this. I cried tears of joy when you left. My house was mine again, no more poor-me victim writing razorblade poetry. You went to the mental hospital and I was content. Perhaps they would teach you to find happiness. I can't do that. But - you're back and - offering comfort Asking people to confide in you Telling the girl whose friend tried to die "I feel so sorry for you! How you must be hurting!" Spreading hypocracy like cake frosting Two weeks past new eviction, you've found another place! I try to bite my tongue - I do - but I think "I can't do that." And through it all, I wish that you'd never meant that much to me. I wish I hadn't cared. I would be over you by now, instead here I am, writing crappy poetry. I ought to move on. Can I do that?