Maybe it Will End

It Wasn't Like They Said It'd Be

It wasn't like they said it'd be,
the steady plip-plop
plop
plip
was not as comforting the poems described,
the blade was not soft as velvet,
my tears didn't drop slowly and gracefully off my chin.
No one came running,
fully equipped with a phone,
already dialing 911.
When I died,
when I killed myself,
my blood dripped loudly,
staining the porcelain,
the drip ringing in my ears until I could no longer hear,
the blade was rough,
and it shook in my nervous hands,
my tears burned my cheeks,
and pooled in my starved collar bones.
I laid in the empty tub,
unable to even sit up or
help myself.
I died alone and cold and
regretting what I'd done.