Her Razors

The day I took her razors and hid them in the ceiling is the day I threw away mine, As her arms healed my scars faded until nothing was left but smooth, unblemished skin. The day I told her she was beautiful is the day I looked in the mirror and thought the same. I could smile. And as she regained her confidence my ribs faded from sight, one by one by one. The day she came to me and asked for help was the day I helped myself. I saw her pain, And I knew it. I helped it. And I, I in myself and only me, ruled my world.