Richard Divine made up his mind to take the last few steps
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to the bathroom door from his bedroom floor and to lock himself in.
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Steady young hands, meticulous plans,
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disposable razors and a blisterpack filled with strong sleeping pills,
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and a bath of hot water.
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He carefully wrote a funerary note
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on his best writing paper to set out the facts,
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and sealed it with wax, and left it in the kitchen.
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He left it out so his parents would know what there was waiting for them:
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pale cold skin and blood seeping in to the landing carpet.
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He said he's not for sale, said that he felt hounded,
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crowded and surrounded by this life he didn't choose.
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But everybody plays this game on a daily basis.
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They're not heroes, they're survivors,
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and it's not Shakespearian if they lose.
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So do what you want, do what the voices tell you,
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but don't ever say that we didn't warn you.
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He said he's not for sale, but he bought into his failure.
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He's telling tales that hammer nails right into open palms.
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A martyr in reverse, he's best at being worst,
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the rest of us are cursed but we keep calm and we carry on.
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So Richard, here it is: none of us are blameless, huddled here like strangers,
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shameless in our lists of all the changes we say we need.
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But I think that you knew that,
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you can't pretend it's news that when you cut yourself you'll bleed.
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Richard Divine
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| Frank Turner |
