A Life Worth Ending

      The mirrored box shone under the light. I stared at it on the shelf as it looked so pure. So pretty. But it was anything but that. Its contents were deadly. Physically, emotionally, mentally. I slowly walked towards it and placed two fingers and a thumb on the lid. I blew off the dust before pulling it towards me and carrying it to my bed with me. As I fell onto the plush comforter, I dropped the box next to me. A square dust line formed on my sheets form the bottom perimeter of the box. I lifted the lid and carefully removed the contents onto my hand. I hadn't held them in a month; they felt heavier than normal. They were my go-to, my crutch when nothing and no one else was there. I depended on them. My hand tilted sideways until they slid from my palm. I stared at them, so dark and sinister. They contrasted durastically with my pale, pink, cuorduroy comforter. I could hear them calling me. Whispering my name. Begging for one more use. I could hear my heartbeat within them, because they held it captive. Had control over me. Control I willingly gave them. But today was the end. No longer would they have that control. No longer would I torment myself with them. Their power is gone. No longer will I succumb to them. I am no longer weak. I am strong. They are not. I pick them up with a new fire; a new desire to overcome. I grip them tightly; I am the one who has the upperhand now. I march up the steps to end their life. I lift the lid of the trash and bury them to their death. The scars are still with me; the blades are gone.