The tears streak my face as I hold the glass in my right hand.

My wet hair starting to frizz

The thoughts of death swimming through my head

The thoughts of friends and family grabbing my heart

The tears coming harder, the sob's escaping my mouth,

My gasping for breathes.

As I hold the glass an inch from my wrist,

Should I do it or should I not?

Should I risk my life for one bad day?

No.