Death in my own Hands

It's between a story and poem

As I sleep the dreams I have scare me. The pain they cause me. The thoughts that run through my mind when I wake up. The one thing I want to do is pick a knife or razor and end the pain. I just want to go back to sleep and never have to move again, never need to get out of the bed. Thoughts of death reach me. I reach for the blade and want more than anything to use it. I take death into my own hands. I raise my hands with the knife in them ready to stab myself to kill myself. Hands on my wrists stop me when I'm in an inch away from death itself. I welcomed it. Dreamed of it. The pain, emotionless. Not scared of it. To have it taken away from me was horrible. I want to run. To die. To be free of the pain adn nightmares and this torture we call life. Free of anything that keep me here. Break the chains and just run and run. Once broken always broken I hear. Well I'm a broken mirror. Broken into tiny pieces of hell.