It's a promise they make to you.
Just after you do it.
When your lungs are freshly pumped,
and your wrists bandaged up.

The age old lie,
"It get's better, give it time."

How much time must I give to you?
You insistent slime.
How dare you claim to have an answer,
when there was no question at all?
Only a solution.

I wrote my oath in my blood and scarred my skin,
in my meek desperation to find something.
Anything!
I've cursed my organs and raptured my throat.
If I dare let myself think about it, then I can still
taste the bile I swallowed.

And yet. Still.
I am here.
I have been cursed to wander this world for eighteen years now,
and not one thing I have found has given me my answer.

It's not a sign, It is a burden.