This poem is for B. In 2019, I was honored to read it to members of NYC City Council.

The sun dips lowand tonight,like so many nights before,it’s your turnto pick a song.

You type into YouTube:“Ben Howard, Old Pine.”

And we laughin that tired, sterile hospital roomsinging off-keyour voices in perfect discorduntil your eyes changeand sadness fills the spacelike a sudden flickerthen, lights out.

"Everything okay, B?" I ask.

You look away,watching trucks deliver bodiesto the hospital morgue,and softly you say,“Michelle, I have such big dreams.I want a job,a girl to love.I think I’d make a great boyfriend.I’m strong.I’m kind.Isn't that what girls want?”

“Yes, and that’s you, B.”Your sadness lifts,just for a moment,into a cautious smile.But your bright green eyeshave seen far more darknessthan any young boyshould ever have to carry.

"Take your medicine, okay?" I say gently."I don't want you back here again.You’re nineteen—your whole life is waiting.That job,that girl,you'll find her."

You shake your head slowly,voice breaking like glass.“Michelle, I’m so lonely out there.The voicesare the only friends I have.When I take the pills,they disappear.Without them,I have nothing.”

B,You taught me morethan years of textbooksand trainingever could.You made me questionthe labels we forced upon you—labels wrapped tightaround wriststhat never asked to be bound.

A brilliant, tortured mind,drugged silent,drowned in chemicalsthat promised healingbut brought only numbness.

B,Sunday night,you stepped off the subway tracksand dragged yourselfto the emergency room—pleading for helpwith all the strengthyour tired soul had left.But they had no room.And sent you away.

My phone ringsand the voice on the lineis distant,clinical,and cold.

“Michelle, B is dead.”

Words splinter my breath,my chest collapses.She tells meyou came to themfrom the subway tracksbegging for sanctuary,but psychiatry decidedyou weren't sick enough—weren't broken enough—to deserve their beds,to deserve their care.

An hour later,you returnedto the same emergency roomsevered in twoby those same subway tracks

I lose my body,numb, sick—her voice fades away,blurred by your mother’s screamsbanging on the plexiglass windows, inconsolable, echoing through hospital halls:"¡Tú lo mataste! ¡Mataste a mi hijo!"

“You killed him.You killed my son.”

My hands tremblemy mind locks in a loop, repeating the same two words: I’m sorry.

I’m sorry that in the year 2017we lacked a systemto nourish a life as vibrant as yours.

I’m sorry we believedwe knew what was best for you.

I’m sorry we failedto understand you.

I’m sorry that after you stepped awayfrom those subway trackson Sunday night,we decidedyou didn’t need help.

I’m sorry there wasno space for you.

I’m sorry that despiteyour vulnerability and courage,the hospital only made roomfor your coldand dismembered body.

B,I am so sorry

that, like so many others before you,and so many after you,the only thing in this worldwith enough graceand strengthto hold and supportyour brown body,your radiant mind,your curious eyes,were those heavy wooden panelsand those sharp iron subway rails.

I’m sorry,so damned sorry,you didn’t die fighting your illness.

You died fighting ours.

B,you lived your lifeso perfectly.

And dare I say,God is in the rails.

Dare I say, God is in the Rails/ Michelle Bernabe, RN/ June 1, 2017

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