She looks around struggling for air,
Choking lungs gasping for a little more oxygen.
It was as if she tried to helplessly trade a little more time from fate,
Little enough to be ready to set herself free.
She looks around,
Seeing the blood streaming from her wrist,
It’s too late she realizes,
The decision has already been made.
Still searching for breath,
Choking on the sleeping pills,
She drifts into flashbacks about how she let herself down.
How she wasn’t strong enough,
How she was nothing but a constant coward.
Tired and lost she couldn’t fight any more,
Memories cluster her slowly numbing mind.
She misses the touch of the paint brush and smell of the colors,
The artist in her had given up to the doctor everyone wanted her to be.
She should have known giving up wasn’t for the best.
The pain is now not to be felt,
Lungs still struggling but weaker in their attempt,
More flashbacks,
More virtual agony,
Wounds don’t hurt like broken hopes do.
Here comes the fear,
Fear for life,
Fear of “what if”,
Questions replacing the memories,
“Why couldn’t you fight for yourself?”
“Why were you so weak?”
“Why did you betray the artist in you?”
“What if you had followed your heart?”
The numbing pain is making it all worse.
A little more oxygen she tries to trade for,
A little more to let the realization strike through,
A little more time to give the artist in her a little apology,
Oh, but it’s too late now to do so.

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