Face to face with a lady I had never met. Sitting in a room with locked doors. Her eyes staring at me like I have done something wrong. I used to be that word happy but then life, and boys, and drama, and my wrists became blood stained, and my eyes became tear filled. I used to be happy, I promise I did. But there I sat with a stranger with the marks from last night, and some mascara stains that didn’t wash away. My mouth speaking words of why I was there, or in other words, why I didn’t want to be here. Suicide was what felt right. But, I learned just from sitting across from a stranger in chair that suicide was never the answer. Maybe, just maybe, you can read this, and feel that word happy. I was told to be admitted. Loosing the only hope I had left. My pills sit on my dresser every night, reminding me that one day, it is going to get better