At nineteen I sat in a stark white room.
Made my home among fellow lunatics.
I carved in the pages of a notebook.
I offered up the luckiest number.
I took hold of seven and made it mine.
Seven years I offered to find my peace.
Seven cycles around a dying star.
If my soul still felt bitter and alone,
then fate would grace my own hands once again.
Finally, the blood would pour into porcelain.

But despite it all, fear strikes at my heart.
I have hit twenty-six, I feel weary.
So, I beg to the void one final time.
I am weak, I am alone, I am scared.
I softly scream, please hear this cry for help.
I may be selfish, I may be unkind,
but please, show me the light I cannot find.