There are millions of ways to end ones life. Jumping off a building, drowning, hanging, allergic reaction for Christ's sake. But no, I'm not doing one of those. I'm choosing the most cowardly way I can think of to kill myself. I'm cutting.

It's simple and not particularly painful.

I look at the shard of broken glass on my dresser. I walk over to pick it up. I walk back to my bed. I sit down. I stare at the shard. I walk back over. I pick up the glass. It's in my quivering hand. I hold it to my wrist. The glass shakes as I start to cry. I try to pretend like I enjoy the feel of the glass against my skin. But I don't. And I know I don't. But it hurts less to choose the cowardly way out, than to bother dealing with my issues. So, I'll take the cowardly way out. I don't want to be brave.

I close my eyes, take a deep breath and cut deep.

My eyes scrunch closed as I feel a sharp pain, then, as the pain dulls to more of an ache, I peek at my wrist. My eyes grow large as I watch blood pour from my wrist, it's such an interesting thing to watch. Your life energy seeping out of you. Especially so quickly. Entranced, I move to lick some blood from my wrist. It tastes coppery I don't particularly enjoy the taste, but I don't hate it either. I ponder whether I'll taste anything ever again.

I start feeling light-headed. I'm happy. I know it's almost over. The constant pain and ache of going through motions every day. Of acting like nothing is wrong. Every. Day. I dizzily walk to the bed. I lie down.

And I drift to sleep.