Untitled, the thought of suicidal. Options

[to-devastate]

I didn't give this a title yet. Nor I don't know if you can consider this a poem or a short story. It's a bit long, just bare with me..

Here I am.
Sitting on the bathroom floor.
A knife in one hand, a candle in the other.
I'm not surely ready.
I fear of this day before.
But they pushed me here.
The hot candle wax drips down to my arm.
It burns like fire.
It pains. But my life pains much more.
I tremble.
The knife almost reaches to my arm.
It is destined to trace the line on my dear arm.
I take a last glance at the empty pill bottles.
Two tears, now three flow down my heart wretched face.
As the knife takes it's first stabs,
my whole life flashes before me. The candle drops.
I remove the knife and the pain rushes in.
Blood fill the spaces of the tiles and overflows.
I start falling to the ground.
I lie there. Helplessly.
-- You caused me pain.

Much comment and critism appreciated.