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A part of me has the growing urge to shove my own fist in the hung mirror, causing it to shatter; an equal comparison to this ruined soul within.

Then, shall we watch the millions of delicate pieces scatter?

A shaking bloody fist would anxiously reach for a sharp broken shard.

The malicious venom coursing through quickly pulsing veins will be released when a hand containing a remaining sliver of glass would glide across a massively scarred wrist.

The bloody puddle left set would then eat at my conscience, forcing all crowded thoughts to suddenly vanish.

Worry being the culprit; worry of early death, which could be traced back from my own hands.

The red, now only crawling droplets, could be defined as an escape from increasing pain that had been acquired throughout a brief period.

Another severed half is speechless, or incapable to from past trauma.
Suicidal actions are all that continues to linger; suffering, dominating.

Once again, the same trembling knuckles reappear to make their way desperately through a depressing yet haunting reflection.

As the pieces fall to the carpet, one remains held as a tool which will star in the performance of snatching away an innocent life.

This do-over attempt provides no uncertainty; no regret.

And only a rotting corpse most-likely never discovered will be what remains of me.

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