Yesterday

      I met a woman

      On a bridge.

      On a ledge.

      On the edge.

      Of love and light.

      Of day and night.

      Of life.

      And I asked her for advice.

      And she said:

      Some will hurt you a lot.

      Some will hurt you a little.

      Some will hurt you on the outside.

      Some will hurt you in the middle.

      But you will heal.

      Some will waste your money.

      Others, your time.

      The worst: both.

      But at the end of the rope,

      there’s hope.

      So, you’ll be fine.

      You must.

      Or you’ll bust.

      And from the tears in her eyes,

      I knew.

      She was finished.

      She jumped.

      Died falling.

      Died from falling.

      The irony is appalling.

      A life story that could never

      be worth applauding.

      Or could it?

      Maybe, if I told her story.

      Gave her death some glory.

      Then maybe God will see her

      as a martyr and have mercy.

      She’ll show up at the gates, soaking wet.

      Covered in water and regret.

      And when he asks her why she jumped,

      She’ll tell him she was thirsty.

      And they will laugh.

      And he will forgive her for her sin.

      And let her in.

      Because her only flaw was loving hard.

      Wanted rock. Wound up sinking.

      No preserver.

      Death certificate says suicide.

      I call it

      murder.

      And he’ll get away with it.

      But this isn’t a reality show.

      Because sometimes

      When you’re in love,

      The reality goes.

      And you’re standing there.

      In a bunch of feelings you didn’t even

      know you had,

      And part of you

      is going to want to yell, “Dad.”

      But you can’t because you’re grown.

      And you should never

      have brought him home

      In the first place.

      I know it hurts,

      But it’s taking longer to heal

      than it should have.

      Think about the kind of man you could have.

      If it was supposed to work, it would have.

      Disappointment is certain.

      Healing is on purpose.

      So, before you fall into the darkness,

      Pull back the curtains.

      You must make the rest of your life

      The best of your life

      If you hope to have any life at all.

      So, remember this woman

      the next time you fall.

      Yesterday, I met a woman

      On a bridge.

      On a ledge.

      On the edge.

      Of love and light.

      Of day and night.

      Of life.

      And she asked me for advice.

      And I told her,

      Heavy is the head of a woman who carries her crown.

      And when love leaves you in unfamiliar territory,

      It is much easier to drown.

      But the same courage that you used to fall in love,

      You must find after.

      I’m no preacher or pastor,

      But I do know

      that only God can put a smile where a frown was.

      So, if you still do decide to jump,

      I pray that God catches you

      Before the ground does.

      This year, an estimated one hundred thousand women will contemplate suicide because of a “boyfriend.” Seven thousand will be successful. One is too many.

      National Suicide Prevention Lifeline

      1-800-273-8255

      To the Good Men

      First and foremost, I’m not the enemy. I know a lot of what I write seems a little bit “one-sided,” and it also may seem a little bit woman-centered, but I do it because I think that women are probably the most underappreciated asset on earth. I apologize if you feel like I haven’t fed you enough. I know that I haven’t, and I don’t anticipate things being like this forever. But what you have to understand is that there are some women in some serious danger. And some of them don’t even know it. When I first started this journey, there weren’t too many people out here to help them. I come from a history of personally helping women starting with my mother, and then it just ballooned to the world. And now, after seeing its success, I have to take flight with it. I want you to know that I think about you with every word that I write. I am one of you. While I don’t always write to you, I most certainly write for you.

      To the Others

      I feel like through no fault of our own as individual men, the playing field has become too