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.