I sit on the bathtub edge
Looking at my cracked reflection.
Shards of mirror lay
Scattered on the floor.
I have already taken a piece
And traced it across my wrists -
To no avail,
The pain still lingers.
My blood has already
Made crimson pools on the tiles,
Creating distorted images of you.
I now hold a bottle
Of sleeping pills in my hand.
I have already consumed a couple -
I lost count after 15.
Isn't that the amount of pills
It takes to kill yourself?
The amount it takes
To numb the burning pain?
I take another swig
Of the horrid concoction
Of brandy, red wine and death,
And look at the distorted image
The shattered remains of the mirror has created.
Tears run down my cheeks
And glisten in the harsh
White bathroom light.
Then I realise just how many pills
I have actually taken.
23 pills.
One for each year,
Since my first breath,
That I have been forced to suffer through.
One for each year,
Since my first look at the world,
That I have lived wishing I could die.
And with my final drop of blood,
And my final sip of poison,
My vision blurs
And my eyes roll back in my head,
Watching as the harsh white light
Turns to black...
