Dear First-Responder

When push comes to shove, what is really inside of us? Am I, is he, are we, are any of us more than skin and blood and flesh and bones? Which of us is the hidden superman, braver than a speeding bullet, able to shed his vanity in a single bound? When push comes to shove, will any one actually hop off of their platform and brave the electrified tracks to save the girl? Or will each one stand there, you-ing the others to temper the pain of I-ing themselves?

I write this because I am tired of you-ing. Today I I-ed myself, and I am unworthy. You will blame my upbringing, the influences into my life, the society which has cushioned me – but I blame myself and no others.

Which is why, dear first-responder, police officer, medical examiner, friend, family member, innocent bystander, I forgive you for you-ing. I do not wish I-ing on anyone, for it may be deadly.

Please pardon my blood on the walls and the floor and the mess outside, but the razor, knife, and gun all didn’t cut it, so I will ask gravity for help.

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