Ticking, he was a ticking time bomb.
Irrational, maybe, but he couldn’t help it.
Controlled by emotions he misunderstood within him.
Kicking the broken pieces of himself.
Tolerated nothing; he had nothing inside to hold on to.
Infuriated at the lack of control; he spun off the handle,
Cutting away the emotions he hated so.
Kind and gentle, that’s how he wanted to appear.
Though he tried, he could never hide all he wanted.
Illogical feelings would come to the forefront,
Coming up at the more inopportune times.
Kids could never help themselves but to notice.
Tears flew down his face, a little boy crying over “nothing.”
Intense hatred for himself was all he knew,
Constant embarrassment over the state that he was in.
Keeping a distance from his classmates, he hung his head in shame.
They all knew though, of the crybaby in the corner.
In the end, he could never hide from them enough.
Clever little words like pussy and wimp erupted from the class.
Kids are cruel, it’s true, but that was never the worst they did.
The worst came one morning when the boy was sitting alone.
In a pack, like hyenas, they came laughing up to him.
Cunt, they said, why don’t you just get over it?
Kill yourself, they taunted, no one would miss a crybaby like you.
They were only reaffirming what he’d always been thinking.
In fact, hearing it out loud sounded strange to him,
Children who hated him knowing him so well,
Keeping him wondering how they got inside of his head.
The school bell rang and the boy took one last look at the group.
Indifferently, they looked back, bored by their little game for the day.
Contrasting, the boy wasn’t bored at all; it had never been a game for him.
Killing himself was what he wanted; it was what they wanted; it was what he did.
They should have taken a step back and really saw him.
If only they’d paid a moment’s attention to his pain,
Caught on to his plan and stopped giving him motives,
Kept him from dying by his own hand, far too young to go.