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.