Is it that the rage consumes me
So wholly when she speaks,
That I become numb?

I know the things she says
Are spat out for the sole purpose of making me feel regret.
I know that no matter how much it feels like it,
She doesn’t say just to tear me down.

But because I've done something wrong.
Even if it doesn’t feel wrong,
But,
Maybe she just doesn’t see it the way i do.

Because what she considers concern,
I think of as pestering.
Maybe that's our biggest divide,
Maybe not.

She asks me,
What will my boyfriend think,
If she told him all the horrible things I'd done before I met him.
And I laugh.

Because he told me not to tell her,
That although she has a good idea,
I'm a much more hideous person than she thinks.
That had she known,

She would understand when she first met me,
Why I was waiting for the ground to swallow me whole,
Why I was constantly looking for the worst possible thing out there.
To keep me as miserable as humanly possible,
Until the day I finally laid down to die.

So I look at her and consider telling her,
Until she gets agitated and starts yelling again.
And I wonder if I had never met him would I have already done it?

Would I have burned the image of my ruptured veins,
In her brain?

Because the thought of seeing her reaction,
Has always ignited something in me.
Of course it would be in her,
That I would find the irony of feeling alive as I die

And I thought about it,
I thought about it a lot,
Concluding that the best way to do it
Would be slashing my throat,

To let her feel the warmth of my blood,
Spurting out and soak in it.

What I would give to see her face then.