At fifteen she wrote in her diary
At fifteen she couldn’t even spell inquiry
And at fifteen he held steel to his wrist
And at fifteen he clenched his fist
And at fifteen he took his last hot water bath

At fifteen she doesn’t remember waking up
At fifteen she had to see him face up
And at fifteen he couldn’t grasp ‘All Right’
And at fifteen shit doesn’t change overnight
And at fifteen they had the nerve to say he’s fucked up

At fifteen he learned the term manic depression
They claim it to be an indiscretion, afraid to say suicide
As if they are afraid of what it applied, its fucking suicide
At fifteen he dyed, and maybe not to you but within he dyed
And its high tide people understand it can’t just be pushed aside

And at fifteen years of age he ceased to live as himself, causative
Because he was born in a word where being negative made you positive
And to be positive meant to wear every jacket in your closet
Because only then do you have room to stuff the skeletons in
What is the benefit, like shit; he wears everything his grandma knit

And yes the wool covers his heart what more could you ask
When you’re fifteen and you wear your heart on your sleeve
But all the yarn in the world couldn’t keep him warm
His sleeves now torn, mine as well been since he was born
No wonder the appeal of steel crossed his mind