I used to cut.
I was depressed.
And then I found someone who loved me and actually cared.
And all of the pain just seemed to disappear.
But something happened.
Words were said.
Someone tried to take him and now he is dead.
The razor from my shelf went missing, but to where, I know not.
The bloodstains on the sheets cannot be removed, but the blood was spilled from
The doorknob to the bathroom will not open.
I push and shove it harder, but it will not budge.
I try and look through the dresser drawer for the missing key, but it is no where to
I run to the kitchen, looking for a knife, or anything else that will allow me entry into
the room, that I know is withholding the truth.
I find something and run back upstairs to the bathroom.
With the pick in the lock I turn the knob and slowly push the door open...
And there he is...
The blade that was once before in my hand, now lies on the floor, beside my dead
love. The blood on the floor around him is still fresh.
The streaks on his cheeks, from the tears are still visible.
I run to his side and grab the razor.
With one fast slice, the gash in my wrist is pouring blood.
I lie down beside my non-breathing love.
Our blood mixes, as we lie there together.
The world doesn't care or even know, the pain that we had to let go.