A short end

2:30 am. Too early to be up, too late to be up. I lie in bed drowning in all the pain, and hurting in places I never knew existed. 2:45 am. My pillow is soaked in tears; I'm tired, but somehow I still have the energy to cry. I shouldn't have don't it; I shouldn't have done a lot of things. 3:00 am. It lies in my palm, enclosed. The metal that has been a friend, it's sharp edges familiar. I let one last teardrop fall. 3:05 am. It's time. I shouldn't resort to this— again. Boo hoo, it's already done. If can't undo the slits on my wrists, or return the blood to its vessels. Too late for regrets. 3:15 am. Should it take this long? I lost my will to fight, long ago. Oh! I'm sorry I failed you. Ours was filled with broken promises, and 'maybes' and 'what ifs'. Maybe I'll be better in the next life. Maybe I'll be perfect, just for you. How do I look you in the eyes and smile again? Quick solution? I don't. 3:18 am. Foolish thinking. Could anything good come from suicide? Look at me thinking I'll be better; imperfection striving for perfection. What a load of crap. 3:20 am. I can't feel anything anymore, and I welcome that feeling. And as I fade into nothingness, I think one last thought. I should've done