I'm sorry about the blood I left on your shirt, on your arms, on your neck, on the hood of your car, on the leather interior. I'm sorry you had to see it. I know you never wanted to see me.

I should have known from the beginning that I was in this all alone, because that's how it always goes, isn't it?

Here I am, a stretch of skin over fragile bones, tear-striken and bleeding for you and there you are, all cold eyes and statuesque.

I'm sorry for vying so hard for your attention, for affection that you are so incapable of giving.

I'm sorry for trying to know you, for wanting to learn you, all before I gave you a chance to know me, if you ever wanted to know me at all.

I should have known from the beginning that this was all for nothing, that you'd never want someone like me, so quiet, so unkept. I fooled myself into thinking I had a chance, and maybe I did at first but I lost that, didn't I?

Here I am, a mess of broken bones and pieces of glass sticking out of my chest. I'll take it out and hand it to you, make a chandelier out of my broken glass heart and I'll light up your bedroom with my affection the way your lack of affection lit up a fire within me.

And there you are, leaning against your car with smoke billowing from your lips, eyes in my direction but looking past me; me on the pavement, shivering and bleeding in the moonlight but you're so cool, so coolly pretending that I no longer exist.

Congratulations, you got your wish.