Etch the scars into the palm of my hand.
In a crowded room, your opinion shines.
Mold your mutters before the night grows dim.

Can you hear me now?
Are we alone?

Do not forget your name dear Severus.
Your words ring true as the clock strikes midnight.
For he may not be I, but I am him.

Can you hear me now?
Are we alone?

Come now, ring the bell, softly take my hand.
Start again, march in line, **** your idols.
Stain the cement with their sin and rejoice.

The first time I uttered the words, "I want to die,"
I was seven years old, in a ruby red fort.
******* crumbs on my lap, tears crusting my eye.

Later that year my brother passed away.
He left behind nothing but echoes and static.
I hated him. I wished he'd taken my hand on that day.

My home was shattered, but they insist I held joy.
I was unsure of this, so I pondered.
I ignored the cries, buried among my toys.

The first time I made the move to self-harm
I was nine years old, in an empty room.
I smashed and I smashed and I bloodied my arm.

That year I was useless my mother said.
A lazy child, always in her way.
I hold her word's sting more than her hits to my head.

Multitudes of mishaps, I claimed clumsiness.
Scars on my knees, bruises on my belly.
I grew ever fixated on my ugliness.

The first time I wrote a suicide note,
I was sixteen years old, in a classroom.
I told my teacher. "A joke!" he said, or so I quote.

I had a brief pause this year. I met a love.
My marmalade bumblebee, wrapped in warmth.
It confused me. This warmth I knew nothing of.

Merely milk and honey, it must be lies.
I cast it aside, and moved on my way.
A distraction from my scheduled demise.

Later that year, something I have yet to tell.
In the cold night, my body was taken.
I was decimated and banished to hell.

The first time I attempted suicide,
I was nineteen years old, in a garage.
A sleep mask and helium resting at my side.

I knew then that I still wanted to live.
But I was tired, I craved eternal rest.
So, I leapt forward, I gave all I could give.

Of course I failed. My pain was uncovered.
Taken to a stark white room, I waited.
Guided by that bumblebee, we sat and suffered.

The first time I felt myself fall in love
I was twenty years old, in an old car.
With punk rock playing, and your hand in my glove.

Mental illness still riddled my heart and soul.
So I stabbed the love. Abused it. Burned it.
Until it walked away, leaving a hole.

The following years I let myself go numb.
No sorrow, no pain, no joy, and no love.
Wasted away, just dirt under my thumb.

The first time I said, "my future is bright"
I was twenty four years old, in a coffee shop.
Reunited with my most beautiful sight.

This was the year I let myself love in peace.
I grew something beautiful, a home, and a life.
I finally felt my pent up pain's release.

Still I learned, I destroy all that I know.
My family cast to ash, my home ripped at the seams.
Alone again, the demons whisper, and so it goes.

We have reached the end of this broken tale.
I'm afraid I can't speak where to go from here.
I sit here, a mundane man waiting to fail.

I wail to the wind, "tread softly,come home."
As a martyr's prayers remain unanswered.
Chemical imbalance writing a tome.
and all the vicars burn the Hansards

A whip cracks idly, the flames lick the tongue.
Hands warm and wring, and Satan has his sin.
Bitterly encroached, subjecting the young.
We taste their demons, we pull from within.

I offer you twenty seven moments.
Each day's brick placed idly beside the next.
The clock strikes twelve, and I know it is time.
With each bell's pang, the club draws to my side.
I offer this home one final journey.
At its expiration I shall descend.
That is all my soul has left to offer.
I pray the silver lining finds me well.
Or we find our end on childhood's moon.

Sweet little sunshine, carry me to my grave.
I pray to you now, and ask for release.
I beg to you now and ask for some peace.

I wonder when the demons fall from sight.
I wish it idly, and tear at my veins.
There is nothing left but skin and a soul.
All the good has gone and rotted away.

Slowly resurrect the fossilized eyes.
Work in the cold, grey, concrete asylum.
We pass in pairs of twenty and seven.
Stroke the blood, dust the ash, spark up the muse.
The rot runs to the core, no man remains.

Scar tissue and cough syrup numb the brain.
A silken, rope-filled snake bruises the pipe.
Midnight arrives. Mama, can you hear the moon?
The stars pass through, purifying the gloom.
Embrace the tumult, greet the curtain call.

The dust mites settle, the clouds become grey.
We spread our wings, cry out, and fade away.

I taste a touch of sand within the wind.
Its grit lying against my brittle skin.
A dusted void enriching from within.

I can touch the future, you can hold the past.
The serpent idly pressed upon our beating hearts.
I whisper your name, inside this hall of mirrors.

Entropy's release, I take a breath of the sea.
The sunrise on the cusp of callous disbelief.
And in that moment, the snuffed ember grows dim.