Killed By Your Whispers

In this book, called my journal,
I once had on each page,
phrases and swirls of joy,
and writings of happy days.

But now the black ink runs,
with the tears I have cried.
It's because of your whispers,
and all of your lies.

The ink slowly runs,
down each sad, dark page.
It now mixes with crimson.
I cut for each mistake made.

For years my poor journal,
had to also endure my own pain.
It heard of all my hurts.
It felt each time I cut again.

For so long I have wrote,
about each day that I've cried.
But now because of your whispers,
I am no longer alive...

I once wrote with black.
Now it all has turned red.
I have now written the last page.
Wrote with only two words, "I'm dead".

My last page was written in blood,
from the delicate heart you broke.
You had shown me no mercy,
with the many whispers you spoke.

My book is finally finished.
You'll now find me lying cold.
"Killed By Your Whispers" I've called it.
My suicide note told...