The Rain On Monday

Written words are the only thing my mind can find ease in.

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10. Away

You rang me at 3:27 A.M. because I didn’t attend college

for two whole weeks.

I was behind on all my coursework

and was sure I would get kicked out.

Your voice was so frantic as you spoke of your boy troubles

while I had the razor against my wrist for the last time.

You spoke in a leisurely way for the last twenty minutes

before it was almost 4:00.

In between your breaths I was silent,

and you asked if I was okay or not.

Though I felt as if you could see me right now,

I answered with a yes, because that’s all I ever felt; the numbness

and apathy of okay.

You were too wise for my tricks, and after you hung up,

you took the train to my house, but I was already poisoned by the sourness

of alcohol and the sting of a razor.

With every minute that passed my body was breaking free

into the vast world of an endless slumber.

It is 5:29 A.M. now, and I am dead.

You are knocking anxiously on my bathroom door,

and when there isn’t an answer for the twentieth time,

you phone the police.

It is 5:47 A.M. and the door is opened.

There I am, face down in the tub, wearing the dress you lent me

to wear to your wedding in April.

The tub is flooded in a bright red colour

that doesn’t look as sad as blood would.

The sticky smell of liquor is lingering in the air.

Your face that is always so soft and poised

is now terrified and exhausted because you knew

that if you called sooner you could have saved me.

You were four minutes and seventeen seconds too late.

You thought that if you hadn’t stopped to call your mother at the station,

you could’ve made it to the scene in the knick of time to salvage me.

But that was not supposed to happen.

You know that; I know that.

So why hasn’t the sadness gone away?

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