I love you. I'm sorry. It wasn't your fault.
Terrifying words on a cell-phone screen.
Blood. Death. Suicide.
The only visions my mind's eye can see.

I'm afraid. I'm broken. Was it my fault?
Almost shaking in fear–but I open the door.
Blood. Death. Suicide.
My eyes slowly drift to the bathroom floor.

I expect to see you-lying there
A too-thin corps on a tile bed.
And almost cry when I realize
That the bathroom is the last place you would want to be found dead.

“Mom?” I whisper–unable to speak
peering through the crack between the bedroom door and wall
“Mommy?” I try, a little louder now
I go to knock–but then let my hand fall

I don't want to know whats in there
But I know I have to see
was it really too much for you?
Did you leave? Was it because of me?

But no–your still here
with tears in your eyes
and for those first few moments
I try not to cry

but of course, I do
because I'm not that tough
and silent seconds tick by
'till we’ve both had enough

“I was scared you wouldn't be here”
and its a lie-but not all
I was afraid she would be
and I'd see how far someone could fall

and we go through our routine
of “I'm sorry” and “I swear”
although it wont mean much come tomorrow
for these moments, its nice to know you care

and then the moments over
because you’ve scarred me before
and I wrench my thoughts away
from a too thin corps on the bathroom floor