I remember red

I remember the days when I would do anything for her. Patience, kindness, and all that. How she reeled me in. Then slit my throat and said, “Why this? Too much. Too much” as the blood flowed. But now I wonder if it was I who did it all. Pressing the blade in gently until I felt the give. Then pulling hard with the rush of madness until all was red and unrecognizable. And saying “Why this?”