In My Appartment '04

I told Ben last Thursday that ‘’suicide was selfish, An unforgivable act.’’ Yet I sat alone, In a room, full of broken pots. On a Tuesday. Grazing my wrists until I bled, Until the ivory china turned ruby. So I could feel the haze and warmth of life. That was until, At 10pm, you opened the door, And walked right in. I tugged my sleeve, let the jagged piece fall. I stayed sitting. Watching as you hit the ground, Like I have so many times before. You washed away my blood, And replaced it with tears. Somehow it had all become about you.