T.R. LeJeune

Here I lay,
panicking in a midnight summers dream,
still convulsing,
sprawled across a blood-soaked floor.

Piecing back the broken shards,
the means that led to your demise,
easily staying in place.
Blood makes for a glutinous paste.

I've never known such pain.
Caused by the mere sight of you
drowned within your own blood,
still slowly seeping from vein.

I'll overcome you,
the darkness you plague me with,
the hell I now drift in to,
for letting you steal your very breath.

Someday I'll be whole again,
basking within the sun-lit room
bathing in its warmth,
in my padded room chamber.