-1From where I lay on the tiles, I can see you in the doorway; you're standing there staring, watching me.
Watching me fade, watching me grow colder and colder, watching me drip away.

You know there's nothing you can do to stop it.
But you don't even try.
All I wanted from you is to try, to care, to bother with me.
You don't try, and if I wasn't dying before, I sure as hell am now.
You won't try. You don't want me to be saved. You don't want to save me.
Instead you just watch.

It's only a manner of minutes, probably seconds, until I'm gone.
There's the chance that I'd faint and wake up alone in this bathroom, finding that my blood had clotted. But we both know that won't happen, there's too much blood.

I don't blink. I don't move. I don't speak. I barely breathe.
I just look at you pleadingly, as you stand there, still watching me.

Seconds pass. I don't know how many. I don't know what time feels like anymore, I'm floating.
We stay still; you standing there with a blank look on your face, me lying on the floor, my blood slowly dripping down the drain that sits in my bathroom tiles. It's the only sound either of us can hear, and probably the last sound I'll ever hear. Time could be frozen and nothing would change except the constant drip, drip, drip of liquid hitting liquid.
It's the sound of my escape, my escape from you.

I guess that's what I get for falling.

The only connection we share now is our eyes. I was foolish to think that eye contact would motivate you to try to stop the bleeding; to make you care. But as hard as I try, I can't take my eyes from yours.

And now there's another drip; one not made from my blood going down the drain, and we both know what caused it.
You followed with your eyes the solitary tear that trailed down my left cheek and onto the cold, white tiles.
You listened to the soft drip sound it made.
And then, you shed your own, singular tear.

You don't apologize for the way you make me feel.
You don't apologize for all the horrible things you said to me, or the terrible names you called me.
You don't apologize for having higher standards, for having friends and popularity.
You don't apologize for being homophobic.
You don't apologize for the rumors, the lies, the blood, the tears.
You don't apologize for hurting me emotionally and physically so many times.
You don't return the 'I love you' that I said to you what seems like so long ago, either.
You don't try to save me.
You didn't try to stop me.
And you don't care, not about me.

With that one tear of your own that slid down your cheek, you apologized for witnessing me do this to myself.

Before I fade completely, your lips form words that should hurt, but don't: "it's your own fault, Bobby."

And in the end we both know what you said is true.
It's my fault because I wanted to fall.
And when I landed, I wanted it to hurt.

I am my own monster.