You Will Be The Death Of Me...

• Eliza Fenton,
• Poetry
• 2007

As the blood trickles,
She thinks she sees a shape,
Is she delirious?
No, it is your face.
The reason for the cutting,
The cause of the deep pain.
The reason that she shies from light,
And has always loved the rain.
You never really told her
You loved her as well,
And now her crazy mind
Has become her solitary hell.
But now it is too late,
To say you love her too.
So she wraps the rope around her neck,
She jumps and thinks of you.