Untitled (as I said, it was part of a letter)
Blood red roses
he gave to me
hoping I'd accept
his apology.
He thought I'd be OK-
I walked away with a smile
but the feelings will come
just give them a while.
As I sit in isolation
I begin contemplation
The roses hue
is my first clue.
I sit and plan just what to do.
Remembering "Wine is fine
but whiskey's quicker.
Suicide is slow
with liquor."
I stroll to the bathroom
to find my only friend-
this cold platinum
to hasten my life's end.
I stop by the mirror
just for a look.
The eyes say it all,
they're like a book.
One last look
at my troubled face
I'm about
to lose my race.
But I no longer care
about such trivial things.
All I think of
is the pain red brings.
I slice one wrist,
and then the other.
I say a silent prayer,
"Please God, help my mother."
Blood runs forth
a shocking shade
just like the roses
he bought that God made.
I fall to the floor
my blood mixes with the flowers.
Knowing he'll know
in just a few hours
is such sweet revenge.
For with me taking my life
will his guilt ever end?
He'll be free
to do as he chooses
but in consequence
his first love he loses.
She can have him
for now I'm gone
my life will end
with the setting of the sun
-A.B.S., 4/1/95