I want to write "PLEASE DON'T DIE" in mile-high letters across the sky, and for all of us to look up and realize we'd be harder to look at than the sun if there were eyes to see what we really are.

Instead I hand the razor blade to my father.
"Here, you can have this back now."
"Are you done with it?"
"Yes."
"Are you sure?"
"Yes, I'm sure."

My voice shakes the tiniest bit, but he doesn't notice, and as far as he's concerned, I've been using it to scrape down a piece of leather. It starts here, after all. I don't make New Years resolutions, really, but the closest I have is the promise to try to treat myself the way I would treat someone in my position who wasn't me, and the intent to let the people who love me--if they so choose--love me as much as I love them.