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Her life is over

I hope I am never in such a bad place again

She sits on the cold tile floor of the bathroom, naked and alone. She has been betrayed and abandoned, lost and confused. She has tried to climb her way back, to fight through the tears. She is no longer strong enough, no longer whole enough. She is too tired and too disenchanted.

The razor glides across her wrist in a swift motion, the blood bubbling in its trail, dripping to the floor. For that one brief moment she felt no pain, but then it all comes rushing back.

The pain of years hiding her true self away, of knowing she wasn't enough to make him happy as he drank through his anger and longing. The agony of feeling so much emotion she wrote a million poems everyday, her love pouring from her heart to words on paper. He awakened what was dead in her heart and then left her raw and exposed as he walked away. The devastation of he who awakened her soul, and taught her who she was. He who showed her a life of acceptance and honesty.

She feels lightheaded now, her thoughts clouded. So much blood pooled at her feet, spreading across the checkered tile.

She spent her life looking for sex, when what she really wanted was love. Not a simple love, not an"I'll settle for you" love. She wanted the kind of love they wrote stories about. The "How do I love thee let me count the ways" kind of love. She wanted to be the only thing that mattered in someones life. She wanted the kind of love when two people can't keep their hands off each other. She wanted the kind of love that made her trust and be trustworthy.

She lays her head on the edge of the tub as her eyes grow heavy. It's too late for her now. They are all gone, and she hasn't the strength to start over. She can't find it in her to believe in love again, or herself. She was never as strong as everyone thought. She needed too much, loved too hard.

Her thoughts start to fade, as if in slow motion. She barely feels the cold of the porcelain against her cheek. Her eyes are closed and though she tries she can't open them. Her heartache drips from her wrist, leaving the pain behind as she takes her last breath.

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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