The small screen dims, 
fading like a wind-caressed candle. 
Eyes emerge from the dark 
like a child’s worst fear from the shadows, 
staring so deeply into me that I forget to breathe. 
The pools of grief and melancholy are mine, 
the kind of familiar one mustn’t consider, 
but the me trapped within the glass 
is a troubled youth, 
a harrowed soul, 
a tortured existence 
from long ago. 
With a swipe and a scan, 
the obituary notice greets me once more, 
hot tears mixing perfectly with blue and white lights, 
images of fancy food and angry commenters, 
those who didn’t care and those who pretend they do. 
His face, 
those shining eyes, 
he looks content. 
But I can see him in a well-lit bathroom, 
overflowing wells in place of his eyes, 
cold-to-touch stones in place of his heart, 
knuckles white gripping ceramic sinks, 
naysayers’ insults a calamity in his brain. 
He wants to die, 
so he does. 
The small screen dims 
harshly like calloused hands striking porcelain skin. 
Eyes emerge from the dark 
like self-inflicted, deleterious, abhorrent negativities. 
They remind me of the times I did not want to breathe. 
They remind me he will never breathe again. 
I sigh. 

BayLee Wetzel is a sophomore majoring in English, studying creative writing and linguistics. She is a member of the Honors program as well as a Resident Assistant. She enjoys art, music, journaling, Harry Potter, and spoiling her cats. BayLee also wants to thank her mother for being her motivation and a phenomenal support system.