I should have died when I was fourteen
since I didn't know how to live -
did not know how to live with the pain
that they said I didn't have -
more than once I tried cutting my wrists
but my thick skin barely bled.
I should have died at thirty-five
after three decades of failure;
started planning my exit at thirty-three,
with a third of a century's censure -
but a back-up blade,
some pills and a bottle
still failed to give me closure.
In a few months I'll be fifty-four -
a senseless age to anyone -
and yet, I sense a truth that lurks
beneath the obvious one:
What if, simply because it's yours,
your life is worthwhile and fine?
