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Why didn't you tell us?Why didn't you tell us?
Why didn't you tell us that you were feeling like killing yourself?!
How could I tell my own mother and father that I wanted to get rid of the life they blessed me with?
Why didn't you tell us that you were always feeling depressed?!
How can any teenager say that to anyone without getting a 'it's a hormone thing, it'll pass' from whoever they tell?
Why didn't you tell us that you wanted help!?
How could I ask someone for help when they would never listen?
Why didn't you tell us that you cry yourself to sleep at night?!
How can I tell you that, when you pasted by my door at night and saw me hugging my pillow, crying, and you just walked by?
Why did you have to go so far as to kill yourself?
Because if you won't let someone talk, not just you but everyone, then they might as well be mute. They might as well be dead.
Why didn't anyone notice me trying to call for help?
Why am I dying now?
Why didn't they care for me?
Why am I asking these questions, when they'
Volpi.You will find that the story you tell
is very rarely your own. In Lucca,
even the smallest pebbles
breathe in the warm sunlight.
Knotted stones and cobbled roads
beat out a paper-dry heartbeat heat
my city breathes in and out,
inhales sparrow air.
It's writing a story.
You are the pen.
You will find that in Lucca
the daisy chains forge fire
in side streets and back alleys.
Teenagers intertwine. Tell me,
odd flower, are you still closed?
Here we are colored wax;
the heat of the city melts us.
We run into each other, rhapsody
of pigments. Operas are our specialties.
Open up; feel the reds.
If not, try and see them. There is a place
of deep knife marks, a street
long as midnight
you may learn something there.
Valentina's voice glimmers like red wine.
You may enjoy intoxications. Still,
know alcohol has no story
and will swallow your own.
Find the sign with the wolf on it.
You'll know the place. Epiphanies ring true as church-bells.
Lucca still guides the wanderers
to well sp
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