Sharp Edge.

I watched the orange ember sink into the snow.
It was the only light I could see, dimming in and out as the cold beneath it seeped through
the ashes.
It melted slowly through the layers of snow, and soon all I could see was a small dent,
and a faint light of orange shine from within it.
I sank too with the ember.
Falling deeper into my own personal snow, my light fading in and out.
Until eventually you couldn’t see me at all, and my orange light died
as it hit the bottom layer, never to be seen again.

The glass fell from my hand, and hitting the floor it fell into pieces, leaving shards of glass on
my carpet.
I quickly cleaned it up, being careful not to get any stuck into my fingers – I would need them
tonight.
My eye caught a larger chunk of glass, and with instinct I hid it in my cabinet behind magazines
and ashtrays.
After lettuce and bacon bits played with my stomach acid,  I sat on my bed staring at
the chunk of glass, and the sharp edge it presented to me.
I pressed the edge against my inner leg, and let the blood creep to the surface.
There was no orange light shining through the cut in my leg.
I cried until it didn’t matter anymore, and I put the glass back behind the magazines
and ashtrays.
I wanted to kill myself.
But I had to find me first.