Dead love

In the bathtub with the sharp knife, the lights are off yet the light still enters. And the decision is in the cold of the metal with the heat of the skin, and you swear that you feel the blood run through your veins.

You close your eyes

There is a satisfaction that you have an emotion, you are frightened and trembling, that you feel. You must have purple lips from biting them, and it is the great drum roll.

You must inhale to start with the fall of the last curtain, it will be seconds to minutes. Where the mind has its last card to play, the last deceit of the sick magician.

From Miguel and Lucia to the five-year-old sister and the stranger on the street. The pain is no longer because of death but for the living.

And the knife is still pressed on your skin.

However, there is your mother dressed in black with your brothers talking at midnight saying that you mattered to them. 

Your friend, who had no words to stop you, now sits on the edge of your balcony on the sixth floor. There are tears on your only pet and the person that you liked is talking in laments of you. And they are black in tears, wounds in the soul and a step of following. These are the ones you loved as they loved you.

And you do not tremble, there is no fear in your bones by sliding the knife in the right arm.

However, with the mist and sleeping of the muscles, you still do not reach your left.

To the heart.

Because the love, of strangers, of abuse, of torment, of the friend of five years and one month, would be destroyed in your abandonment.

And the suicides are brave with closed eyes and a plea hidden in their lips for their loves. But we are cowards who bite our lips with tears while the left arm bleeds.

T.A.