yes.

hair crow-black, a veil to the sights of the world.

cuticles picked, raw from nervous habit.

too-large sweatshirt. wringing hands. tapping foot.

he slumped on the oversized couch, shoulders hunched, waiting for questions; waiting to answer.

the yes’s came in droves.

yes. i feel guilty.

yes. i sleep all day.

yes. i’ve skipped school.

yes. i don’t feel like eating.

yes. food is disgusting to me right now.

yes. i have thoughts of hurting others.

yes. i tried to slit my wrists last week.

yes. i sliced my neck open with my pocket knife.

yes. i overdosed on pills.

yes. my father left.

yes. my mother can’t pay her bills.

yes. our cupboards are usually empty.

yes. i have thoughts of suicide.

yes. i’m tired.

yes.

yes.

yes.

yes. i’m only 16.

yes. you can help me.

 

and just when i think i’ve had enough of my long days, needy patients, demanding patrons, & angry mothers…

the yes’s come.

and when i throw out judgment like candy at a summer parade, blind to the grief that lies beneath…

the yes’s come.

and i smile with my eyes instead of my face, not wanting him to think i’m laughing at his tragedy. the windows to his soul empty, flicker bare his face smiles back instead. and i think that is good enough for now.

the yes comes. a resounding yes…

yes, i’ll help you.

 

{i’m thanking God today for the nonprofit & charity-sponsored crisis organizations that help patients like him…have you considered supporting your local psychiatric crisis center?}