The tears spilled down my face, drowning me. And I let them. I willingly breathed in the salty, sharp, bitter liquid. I dashed away my will to live. I destroyed it on the sharp rocks below. I was hung from a fraying rope, dangling above the abyss of depression. I knew I would fall. I was in my room, hiding under piles of blankets. But I was still vulnerable, like a beetle flipped on it's back. I was unable to move, unable to feel. I was numb. And as I felt the last pieces of my heart shatter and the shards pierce my flesh, I breathed out for the last time.
That's how it would all end. But I couldn't bring myself to do it, and the pills remained in my hand. I sat on the cold toilet, waiting for the bravery or desperation that possesses some poor souls. Tears stained my tired face, streaks etched into my skin. I just wanted to leave, but I was trapped. I couldn't run, because loves bonds were too strong, and death refused to clasp it's grip around my small neck. It just wasn't my time.
