You look in the mirror to watch your pain. It becomes you, you suppose, or you've just seen it for too long. You want to pick up something and throw it at your reflection, so you do. The glass shatters, and your fist suffers a few cuts. It's not a big deal: you feel like your insides have been massacred; a few cuts are not a problem. It's not even a priority.

You keep screaming in your head of how you wanted everything to be, and how much you fucked everything up. It's all your fault. Everything was you. You stop crying for a second to look at yourself. Oh that feels more comfortable. The pain shifts to hate. How could he do this to me? He knows what she's capable of, how could he do this? What the hell did I ever do to him? I loved him. The hate falters. I love him.

You're going to keep thinking about it until your mind is numb. You keep touching the cuts on your hand, hoping that everything that feels so bad on the inside will fade to a dull ache like the cuts. There's no problem with the cuts. Clean, simple, quick and shallow. Nothing to them. They don't bother anyone.

You pick up a shard and test it against your skin; the memory of a promise is the only thing that holds you back. Reaching for every remnant of ecstasy it draws back, pulling you farther into your own despair. What have you done? Is everything really at face value? You thought it would be all right, it'd take a while but it would be all right. Bullshit.

Thinking of all the things he'd hate you for doing, you make a list and swear not to do it. Everything is for him. You can't do this for anyone else. No smokes. No blades. No candles. No matches. No needles.

You turn up the radio and step into the shower. You dance. Pretend it's with him sometimes, pretend you're up against him and he's holding you like you always wanted him to. The music stops playing: the batteries are dead. Your imaginary world leaves you under the cold water.

Step out. Dry yourself off and look at yourself in the broken mirror again. This was you. Fix it.