Don't Jump To Conclusions!

I sit at my window,
as I watch the rain hit against the glass.
I remember this day well,
about a year or two ago.
The one I loved hurt me dearly,
he left a scar on my wrist along with my heart.
I stare at my broken flesh,
along with its brothers and sisters.
I have not spoken to my family,
or my friends about my actions.
I hide my disappointments well,
for I am too ashamed to show.
I remember the pain I felt,
when I saw my love with another.
My mother nor my father was there,
but the kitchen knife was.
I only recall slight pain
when it dug into my wrist.
The cut was not deep,
no, not deep at all.
But the agony I felt in my heart
grew stronger.
I sit before you now,
scarred lonesome and depressed.
I do, of course, realize that
this poem does not rhyme.
But a story should not take
a lifetime to write.
I have made many mistakes,
and telling you what I've done
is one of them.
I quickly finish this poem
as I pray for it all to end.
The air is escaping from my lungs,
as I hang from my death rope.
My chest heaves, and,
although I do not have a rope around my throat,
I am still suffocating.
The rough tip of the knife
is painted red.
A new line of blood
runs down the inside of my arm.
Down my arm, across my wrist,
and through my palm.
With my own blood,
I write this poem on my window.
I cannot take this pain anymore.
I take the tip of the blade to my heart.
To, again, open the scars one last time.

 
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