Musings of the Insane

Broken glass

I sit here,

trying to ignore the stinging

in my arms and hands.

Broken glass

around me,

the product of my rage.

I broke everything I could,

myself included.

But did I really break myself,

if I was broken to begin with?

I stare at my wrists,

they gushing red.

My life,

empty as it is,

spilling out.

Good for nothing but adding

a splash of color to this empty room.

The glass is in pieces,

poking me in the side as I lay down.

Broken and useless.

Like my heart.

So I'll throw that away too, I guess.

Why keep it?

It's more useless then this

broken glass around me.

At least the glass will kill me,

and not just keep me writhing in pain.

I pick up a piece,

sliding it down my wrist,

glancing at the note I left on the table.

For family when they find me here,

buried in broken glass.