Letter to a Friend

Dear Sam, 

Do you remember that time you called me and my backpack was still on? I had just walked through the door. I still had my shoes on. You called me when I had just seen you maybe 4 hours ago. Do you remember how we were sitting in the Student Union at Wright State and the conversation no longer sounded like a business transaction? You told me about your mom and your sister, about life in the Philippines. I listened, as I always do. I don’t even think we had gone to that concert yet. Do you remember that concert? We scream sang every song on the way back. We ate in Kentucky just so we could say we were in two states in one night. You cried in the hotel hallway when your sister told you she was pregnant. And then I barely saw you after that. But you called me that day and I wonder why this isn’t the first time someone has asked me to talk them off the ledge. Sam, I don’t ever want to hold a life in my hands again. You couldn’t have known that I was on that ledge with you. We could have held hands and jumped together. My Dad died and my Great Grandma died, and I think I also died. I felt like half a person, Sam. I never told you any of that. I don’t know how to tell people things. I could have been sick in love with you and would never have told you. Sam, I wish you hadn’t called me. That is not to say that I am not happy you chose to live, but I will carry this around with me forever. Sam, why did you call me? My words curdled out of my mouth. Those lies were the most genuine ones I could find. I mean that they are true for you but if I had tried to use those same words to save my own life it wouldn’t have worked. All I’m saying is if you asked me what I had done the previous summer, I’d have told you I have a tattoo and a lot of friends who no longer text me. My love language is anyone telling me I am worthy of my breaths. I’d have told you that I should have been calling you and you should have been talking me down. I’d have told you I am not the pillar of positivity everyone thinks I am. I mean, strangers tell me about their tragedies and I feel phony for ever being sad. I mean, being an Empath means friends might call you while leaning out the window. I mean, happiness is not a destination. Sam, I want to tell you that I think about you anytime I feel I might be a bad person. I am so happy you got your degree, and you moved to your dream city. I’m so happy that you have your coffee every morning(I remember how crushed you were when Peets Coffee closed and how much you hated working at Dunkin’), and take walks along the water with your sister and niece. I’m so happy that you learned the past has already happened, the future doesn’t exist yet, and the only moments that matter are the ones happening right now. And that when the spiral starts we have to walk down it even though it makes us sick, but it’s worth it to get to the bottom. This too shall pass. Sam, maybe someday we can talk about how cold and isolating the air is on the ledge, and how we never ever want to stand on it again.

~Ayesha Alexander (She/They)

Ayesha says, “This poem is one of my most honest poems. I am well known for writing things that are blunt, so this is no surprise. However, 'Dear Sam' really showcases my relationship with other people and myself at the time it was written. I hope others can appreciate it and relate to it.”