There is always a way out,
my friend, no matter how bleak
the path seems.
The rooftop will not console you,
the pavement is not your escape.
Do not listen to my past lies:
The smiling blade will not
comfort you in the middle
of a sweat choked night,
it will only rip open old wounds
better left forgotten
and scabby.
The cigarette butt still lit
will not imprint glowing marks
onto your pale skin,
only angry welts you will be ashamed
of in the morning,
only to repeat the motions
later that same evening.
The end is never the answer,
my friend,
and one day,
you will believe me.