She cried that day, I remember because I had to wipe the tears that were rolling down her face, I hugged her and she smelled of cigarettes and the Johnson’s baby soap that she used to steal from her little sister because it reminded her of when she was young, her shaking hands held a gun, and she told me that she would rather die by her own hand than die by the colour of her skin.
She told me that I didn’t understand, I told her that I did, I told her that I knew what it felt like to be left alone and fragile, abandoned at your weakest point, she didn’t believe me.
She said that I didn’t understand what it felt like, to be disconnected from her culture, her family, everything she ever knew and trusted, that was exactly the same way I felt, and still feel, but I was stronger, strong enough not to turn to a gun or a rope or a handful of pills to solve my problems, or maybe I was too weak, too weak to pull the trigger and end my own life, but she didn’t understand the fact that we were the same, she didn’t want to accept that I was just as fucked up as she was.
I told her that everything would be ok, that if she only trusted me, even just a little, I could make things better, I could change the world if she was with me, that I still felt the same way, she saw right through me, I told her I loved her, at least that part was true, she smiled sadly at me and pulled the trigger.