I broke everyone's favourite glass today.
Picking up the pieces I realized I was still suicidal.
I started salivating at the thought of my own blood.
I was so sure the old me had died, turns out she's very much alive.
With each piece I pick up I think of what could've been and what still is.
First piece, what if I slit my throat or wrist.
Second piece , I can't inflict so much pain on them.
Third piece, but none of them could ever comprehend my pain even if they tried.
And then all the little pieces that cant be picked up but swept away is my confusion, unanswered questions and ongoing pain about life and death all in one.