You were the roses they brought me in the hospital, pt. II

So you'd come in at little past midnight
the night before, and not for the first time.
I tried to imagine myself as the one
who'd found you, you and the incompetent
razor and the leering crimson smile
unleashed by its shiny stainless edge,
you and your tears and hysteria, but I
couldn't even picture it. Maybe I just
didn't want to. And you can bet that
I sure felt quite invalid right then,
standing so pretty and useless at the top
of the world, without a single scratch,
and I disgusted myself with the fact
that I yearned for my own heartache
to one day finally exceed my fear
of simply throwing it all away.

The sounds of ginger conversation
and the awful howls of the patient
across the hall had all melded together
into one incomprehensible murmur, and
following a hefty silence, I asked timidly,
Did it hurt? wondering if perhaps
that was a heartless thing to say, but
your face just clouded over and you replied,
rather astonishingly, No. It took me
a moment to realise that you meant no,
it was nothing compared to the pain
you've always felt inside, and if a temporary
physical discomfort was required in order
to forever escape the wreath of anguish
that you could no longer live with,
then so be it. After all, that short time
of bodily suffering seemed like such
a disproportionately minimal price to pay
for an eternity of merciful nothing,
and obviously, it was a one you had
been only too willing to donate.