Blood Stains on the Bathroom Floors of My Soul.

I am not weak, I once heard her say right under her breath, I am not weak, I am tired. By then I could not understand that she was deeply troubled and that she was insanely lost. She was not weak, oh, I know this. She was just beat and a bit washed up. Back then she needed the ear of an elephant, and the lips of a tomb. She spent too many afternoons reading books, she spent too many nights wandering around her dark maze of a mind. She contemplated on how things would be like if she took a trip somewhere else, a place not for the weak, a place where she wouldn't ever meet anyone she already knows. I always did think a trip would be refreshing, a trip far, far away. I clearly did not understand. She was not weak, oh I once heard her say. For she was only exhausted. And that is all I could think of the day I saw her lying in our bathtub, with excess pills on the rug, a slit wrist, and  a  flooded floor with both water and the deep red stain. Stepping on a pool of blood I was. I just couldn't understand, that she was not weak, she was just tired. Tired of living. She needed a trip, she once said. A trip somewhere far, far away. And that, I never got to understand until she left and left for good.

The End

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