Free

My hand flies towards the glass of the mirror that holds the image of my ugly, blotchy, tear-stained face and everything goes in slow motion.
My hand inches forward,
The anticipation building in the pit of my stomach,
It’s like watching a thermometer climb from zero to one hundred and sixty in a matter of seconds,
My hand hits,
The glass spidering out,
And then shattering to the floor,
I see the sharp edges tear jagged cuts in my skin,
The blood start to slowly trickle out and onto the reflective pieces,
I hold it there for just a second,
But it seems like so much longer,
When I pull back,
I can see shards sticking out of my fingers and knuckles,
I slide down the wall,
And lay my head back,
And just let myself feel the high of my release,
For a few moments,
I feel free.