I think...

I lay here on my freshly-made bed
with its brand-new blue satin sheets
and I stare at the lights and the fan blades.
In my right is clasped one of my mother's brand-new steak knives
and in my left, nothing but a tattered letter
dotted with my tainted blood.
I lay there and I think of all the pain,
I think of all my self-inflicted scars,
I think of all the tears I shed at night,
where only my screams,
echoed off my room's apple-green walls,
accompanied me.
I think of all my memories,
not even half a lifetime's.
I think of what is best,
I think of the past few weeks
I spent pretending I was happy,
pretending I was fine.
I think of all the smiles I smiled
when all that really came to mind were frowns.
I think of all my empty laughter,
I think of all the final words and conversations
I had with those who claimed to love and care for me.
I think of all the things I'll never have or see,
I think of the very last time I kissed and screwed
the man of my dreams, the love of my life.
And even then that does not stop me
from plunging my mother's steak knife
into my chest pinning me
to the satin sheets.
And at once I am freed.