I was 9 when I wanted to die. I didn’t even know what that meant but when my grandfather did I heard people say, “He’s at peace.” I wanted to give my life to feel that peace too.
I was 10 when I found a way to, a solution, though I didn’t succeed. I’ve spent the last 13 years trying to, and hoping that I would.
I was 17 when I had the solution perfected, I didn’t act on it because I put somebody else first, like I’ve always done. And I’ve spent the last 6 years hoping and wishing I didn’t go my father’s funeral because in my life yena wafa kabini kuqala wayethwele umnqwazi and I buried him in the name that my father was grandfather and I didn’t have to bother to bury him the second time because he didn’t bother to raise me.
I wish I didn’t bury him because I wouldn’t have had somebody else to live for.
I’m here again, wanting to die again, but I remember that my mom looks to me for help, looks at me with hope. I’m putting someone else first again; will I spend the next 6 years wishing I had said, “F them,”?
I don’t know.