The Slowdance

I danced with him, once.

There was a boy in my class,

Who was depressed. Everybody

Knew about it. But no one said

Anything to him. Not a word.

But one day, I danced with him.

We swayed, awkwardly, to the music.

I glanced down, and there it was -

A row of marks, sharp slashes

Of red against his skin.

And I asked him what happened.

"Oh," said this boy, this boy who

I had had a crush on for ages,

"I just cut myself."

He cut himself. He took a knife

And pushed it against his skin

Until it broke, and blood,

A dark line of red wetness,

Dripped from his arm.

Why would he do that?

Does he not know that if

He would only have let me,

I would have loved him until

His sadness went away?

Maybe I don't understand.

Maybe I just don't see.

I couldn't make it go away,

Not really. Not forever.

In a way, with those words,

You didn't just cut yourself.

"I cut myself," you said.

No. You cut me too.