Jump, fall, land, splat.
Who ever said that?
Not the twisted face he sees,
though it drove him to his knees.
Not the voices in the dark,
though they surely made their mark.
It wasn’t caused by medication,
the doctors or their dedication.
Depression didn’t tell him to;
no, that isn’t why he flew.
Psychotic symptoms cut him deep,
but that’s not why he fell asleep.
Anxiety was killer-cruel,
and made him feel just like a fool;
but heed my words when I make clear,
that angst is not the killer here.
PTSD caused panic, sure,
but didn’t paint the ground with gore.
With sobbing, though his frame was wracked,
it wasn’t OCD: that’s fact.
BPD might cut his skin,
but surely didn’t his life, win.
Though his ribs made hollow dips,
anorexia didn’t turn his lips
a grey that only death can draw,
or break his body on the floor.
we’re getting close with words like shame,
but the killer had a different name.
Who ever said that:
jump, fall, land, splat?
Was it lack of words, an answer naught,
when just a single word he sought?
Or how about the stares he drew
from strangers: if only they knew!
Did the synthetic, too-forced "care"
fling his frame into the air?
Was closing doors on all the crying
a factor in his early dying?
Could the exhaustion of pretence,
have made his own life the expense?
Did the stark absence of words,
feed his eyeballs to the birds?
Likely yes and likely no –
you see, he’s dead: we’ll never know.