Every Other Day Poem by Can I Live?

Everyday, he walked in at 7 A.M. sharp
with his books in his hands and
his face pointed down towards his shoes.

He sat down and looked around at me, waiting.
Sometimes he leaned against me,
crossing his arms as if there were a sign there that says “go away.”

One day he came in at 6, took a knife from his pocket,
then looked to make sure I was the only one watching.
He set the knife down, and opened a drawer.

He sat on the floor and began to write, tears streaming down his face.
When he was finished,
he set the paper down where he knew it would not stain.

He picked up his knife, talking to himself,
saying, “All the things I used to have are gone.
They won’t come until later.”

In that moment I knew he was too far gone.
It took a few seconds, a jerk of the wrist,
and one great gasping breath before he told me in a whisper

about the girl.