Scars, bruises, blood. All over my body. My feelings trapped inside. I can't take it anymore. I hesitate at the razor in my hand. I touch it to the tip of my vein, slice it down, and watch the blood flow down my arm. I bite my lip and silently cry through the pain. It hurts. A lot. But that's okay. No one cares any way. They think they care, but they actually don't. I know. Again. I grab the razor. This time, I take it to my thigh. I bite my lip, and drop the razor. I stare at the blood slowly sliding down my leg. Drip. Drop. I could hear the sounds of my blood, as it fell to the rug. I grab my pillow, pull it to my face, and scream. As loud as I could. Screaming through the pain. My make-up smeared all over my pillow as I pull it from my face. I glance over at my desk. I hesitate. The pistol. I take a minute. Breathe. I walk to it. My hand shakes as I grab it. I clicked it back and put it to my head. I stood in the mirror, as I saw a tear go down my cheek. I knew this was the end of me. I pressed the trigger and fell to the floor. I was dead. But I wasn't. I realized I was still standing, breathing. I found myself still looking in the mirror.
