I watch the blood. I watch the crimson fall from my arm. It no longer hurts when I do this. It feels good, it is relief. The blood drips, drips like water from a faucet. My book of poetry is filled with these such bloodstains. My arm is littered with these such scars.

I know you’ll be mad when you see this. I know what this represents you you. I know you’ll try to hug me. And I think I just might let you. I know that this blood represents broken promises. I know this choice I made means that I’m still broken. Still broken, you say it like I was fixed. Your words come to me now.

I can hear your voice, it’s almost like your here. But I know your not. I watch the blood. I watch the memories in my mind, like old movies playing the movies over and over. I trace the old scars and the faded lines. I can still hear your voice.

“Oh, Emily.”

I don’t look up. I watch the blood. It relieves me. Now I’m hearing voices, your voice.

I feel your arms around me. I feel you hold me. I wish we could stay like this forever.