• A thick sheet of dust covers the mantelpiece,
    A vacant photo frame,
    That used to contain my picture lies there,
    On it’s side,
    Facing the back wall in abhorrence,
    They can’t stand the fact I used to be appreciated.
    They can’t stand the fact I was there.

    The cold, dark stairs where I used to sit,
    Loom precariously before my eyes,
    I recall myself crying,
    Solid to the spot on the central stair
    Too scared to move…
    Too scared to breathe...
    Too scared to exist...

    My room door remained firmly shut,
    As if it were room 101,
    And I was inside.
    Tears staining my face,
    I still remember where I hid it,
    That bit of solid, knife-like glass,
    That I tried to end my life with.

    I can recapture the sensation,
    The jagged glass incising my skin,
    It felt good,
    Like I was somewhat lifting the anguish.
    Blood trickled to my floor.

    The stain is still there,
    Maroon against the lavender carpet.
    A tree amongst the flowers…
    Regret amongst the memories…
    A memory always on my mind…