The knife

I still can't talk in the past tense. WAS has become a horrible word. I still say IS. IS will be my forever word.

Trying
to work and a tear slams onto my paper. I just started crying, how could it travel that fast? My head is low, its hard to pick up and look around. I see things that should make me smile, but I have no smiles left.

I look at the knife beside me and I want it. Its the only thing I see. Its point sharp, its intentions deadly. Its black handle calling me to grip it.

Are you at the end of the tunnel? Will you be my prize or would you send me back? Not that I would listen. You say its just not my time.