My play-doh set. My brown barrette.
My high top shoes. My young views.
My dirty shirts. My elbow hurts.
My parents yelling. My lips never telling.
My legs growing longer. My body getting stronger.
My hair becomes darker. My heart grew harder.
My hazel eyes. My grandpa dies.
My new friends. My obsession with pens.
My bad habits. My hands full of baby rabbits.
My sight grew weaker. My world less sweeter.
My writing swelled. My how that gun was held.
My the years passed. My from that one blast.
My life was never the same. My heart full of shame.
Am I to blame?
My those bitter months crawled. My mind is still appalled.
My how I struggled. My how I couldn’t stay out of trouble.
My depression hugged me like a shadow. My memories full of him buried down below.
My heart continues to ache. My body used to shake as I lay awake.
My walls finally came crashing down. My sister saw my gut-wrenching breakdown.
My life was saved because of that terrible day. My parents were full of dismay.
My early mornings consisted of Judy. Counselors are so damn snoopy.
The years have slowly helped me cope. Though on April 5th I sometimes mope.
They call me a suicide survivor. I just believe everyone’s life runs on a timer.