Cut Me

"Cut me; this time I want you to do it."
My cheeks are flushed from the heat
And my eyes are glazed over, shining brightly.
Like the knife I hold in my hand.
It trembles slightly and the glare hits the tip,
Threatening me.
I put the hand with the knife out,
Holding it up to him.
Pleading with him.
I knew he'd do it if I told him to,
It just took awhile.
It's nothing more than what I always asked.
His eyes look sad;
Those perfect brows furrowed a bit.
He'd cut me with or without the knife,
I knew that.
"Why do you do this?"
His voice is nice, not very deep but comforting.
I feel myself get angry again.
We're standing in his room,
I came to him.
Sometimes I wonder if he knows how much I need him.
The lights are off and the blinds half shut.
The sun's setting.
The way it's shining on his face makes me want to cry.
"Please."
I'm begging.
Cut me.
I want to scream it.
The way he's looking me;
Perfect everything.
It's easy for him because he's beautiful.
Now the sun's not shining on his face.
It hits his chest though.
I glance from the light to his face,
I can't see his expression; his whole face is a shadow.
I want to see his eyes,
Make sure he still cares.
My eyes fill and I look back down.
To where the light hits his chest.
I want to hit it too.
I don't even think he's surprised when I run into him,
Hitting his chest hard.
Pounding and sobbing at the same time.
"You already did!"
I'm screaming.
Furious and sad at the same time.
Emotions bombarding me.
My heart hurts,
It's aching in my chest.
When he pulls me to him I struggle but it doesn't help,
He's stronger than me.
Soon I'm silent, standing there, his arms around me, leaning against his chest.
I'm listening to his heart beat and
I'm wondering if it's hurting like mine is.
I close my eyes, two tear drops fall down my face.
I resist the urge to wipe them.
His head is down, close next to mine so I can
Hear him breathing, soft breaths against my neck.
I take a deep breath, his scent filling me.
He waits until I'm completely silent.
I keep my eyes closed; tighten my grip on his shirt.
I want to beg him not to say it.
And when he does, it's a whisper, quiet and beautiful, caressing my ear.
"I'm sorry."
And it cuts sharper than a knife.