This is something that I wrote last night at a Denny’s on Grand Ave. It’s not poetry, but I am not sure it’s fiction. Please comment on content and grammar. Corrections are welcomed. I’m super rusty.
The blade lay heavy in her hands. Much heavier than it ever had before. How could a two-inch razor blade have such weight to it? Maybe she was lighter. Whenever she had come to the point of holding blades to raw skin, certainty and sadness would push heavy on her, but not tonight. It was habit that brought her to this familiarity, this addiction. It was not the weight of deliberate action. She did not want this. It would not give her relief. She knew that now. She always knew that. Today, that truth would not be denied. Blood would not be drawn. Bandages would be unnecessary. Freedom was hers once her hands were free of the two-inch piece of misery and her heart free of the 5 year memory of pain.
“Let it go”, she whispered convincingly.
Repeating the phrase to herself, she finally did let it go. The blade fell to the floor accompanied by two lone tears and a breath that seemed to have held all the resentment she carried. That’s all that was left in her to sacrifice. It was finished for now. All that was left between her and healing was time. Lucky for her, she was just at the beginning. Time was on her side.