(TW: depression, suicide)

She feels like she’s starring in a coming-of-age movie. 

It’s a bad one; the plot doesn’t even make sense

and she, the main character, doesn't know her lines. 

In fact, she just found out, to her surprise, 

that she knows nothing at all. 

All she’s ever known to believe is a lie,

and right now, the balcony seems pleasantly high. 

The way down would be a sudden goodbye. 

 

She is surprised by what she just thought 

and moves on with her day, and night. 

Kid Cudi blasts in her headphones from her playlist named “you can do this”. 

All along, I guess I’m meant to be alone. 

No tears this time, they’re all gone.

She has thought about trying drugs. 

She wants to know what the fuss is all about, 

is curious why sad people turn to it after all, 

but she’s not that miserable yet, and moves on with her day, and night. 

Scott blasts along, 

out there on my own.

She copes with writing songs 

and watching ordinary videos on her phone

for hours 

so she’s lifted from the burden of hearing her own thoughts.

She appreciates songwriting that depicts the randomness of life, 

because, in fact, life is no such thing as intentional. 

She begins to get lost in misery. 

Her sleep pattern begins to change quickly. 

Soon her nights are her days, her days the sleepless nights. 

She stopped studying and pursuing any goal,

no longer writes in her journal, 

and stopped talking about her feelings to friends and family.

She has never understood people who harm themselves before. 

She gets them now and is scared of her thoughts. 

She calls a helpline, but no one picks up the call. 

She’s all alone in her Berlin flat, a poster of Bowie on the wall.

She walks along the streets of the strange town she has no life in,

and never had,

and it hits her now that, 

if she was no longer, 

no one might actually be really sad.

She’s stopped listening to her playlist, 

she doesn’t think she can do it anymore.

She remembers the rooftop. 

Decides to check it out one more time. 

The last moment she saw someone’s face was at the door of the decline. 

And so she declined, the wind in her hair,

and, as she thought about before, it was indeed a sudden goodbye.

She 

was twenty, 

not that tall. 

With a kind face, 

short hair of brown color. 

Parents 

and an older brother 

who truly loved her. 

Friends 

who can’t believe 

she’s no longer. 

They think about all the dreams 

she never pursued, 

the songs she wrote

no one would ever know.

They’re sad about it all, 

so sad 

they don’t leave the house anymore. 

Berlin, 2020