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.
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