My Love Painted in Blood

My Love, Painted in Blood

Why can't you love me like I love you? I know it's wrong you've told me a million times. I know it's sick but how could something so wonderful be sick? Those are the thoughts that run through my head as I lay in bed thinking of you.

I'm tired of pretending I love my wife. I'm tired of my stolen glances at you. I am so tired of life without a love deeper than brotherly. All I want is for you to see that maybe one day we could be so much more.

I sit on my knees in front of the toilet, puking my brains out. Maybe if I am skinnier you'll love me. Deep down I know that you could never be that vain. The reasons you don't love me are clear. You think it's sick, wrong. You think I'm sick and wrong.

I never thought it would end this way. Sitting on the kitchen floor, knife clutched in my hand. There is a piece of paper hanging on the fridge. Written on it is four words.

'It's not your fault.'

The words are meant for only you to understand. Your the only person I will ever love, the only one for me. It hurts to know that you will never feel the same. I suppose my end was inevitable, from the day I told you I knew I would have to end it all myself.

Hands shaking I brought the knife to my wrist. Breath hitching, I drew the freshly sharpened blade up my forearm. I took the knife off my skin and brought it down to my wrist again, making a deep cut horizontally. The cuts formed a 'T.' I thought it would hurt more, but my whole body felt strangely numb.

I watched the blood bubble to the surface, fascinated. I'm getting light headed, but there was one more thing I had to do. I crawled to the fridge. Once in front of it I drug my pointer finger through the blood. I placed it on the paper and made a heart.

I smeared the extra blood on my lips, and kissed the lined paper. I smiled it looks just like the paint you love so much. My love for you was painted in blood, and still you'll never feel the same. I suppose that's why it had to end this way.