Sixty Three

If I were to ever commit suicide in a metro, it'd be here. Vendome.
I have spent hours upon hours here, feeling this same breeze, gazing into the tracks, gazing across at red benches.
I have lied to myself here. I have cried. I have stifled feelings. I have forced laughs, restrained myself from jumping, restrained from pushing others. I have gone numb. I have spoken aloud to myself. I have written over fourty letters; just sitting.
I have waited for nobody.
I have lost myself between 3:30 arrivals. I have listened to songs from the same iPod since grade eight. Some encouraging, some counter-productive in retrospect.
Years later, though I no longer require this station's buses for school, life brings me back. Somehow, life brings me back to this station. And years later, I am still a mess.
I still do not know who I am.
What I am capable of.

I stare at the red benches I have seen repainted at least fifty times. I listen to my iPod. I let the trains pass. I do not jump. I try to stop thinking.