Why
the sharp pain in my finger,
from the rose thorn,
and the cold wind around me
remind me of the sharp pain and cold I felt the day
you left.
how could you leave me here
alone?
how could you listen to my cries but not
come?
how could you watch over me but not
help?
how could I not see your pain?
why did I not see sooner?
the world we live in is sharp and cold,
as was the blade you used.
it was
and
still is
something I can never forgive myself for.
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