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her index finger rests on the curved piece shiny metal.
Resembling a piece of surgical steel
chilled by the affects of a climate controlled morgue.

It’s cold to the touch
yet her finger sweats.
Not like the affect of condensation
on the outside of your drinking cup,
but from an anxiety of the action she intends to use it for.

Her knuckles have gone white.
The blood in her hand has retreated past her wrist,
for fear of its departure as well.

Her blood tries to delay this inevitable exit
by flowing away from Her vital body parts
needed to carry out this unwarranted haste.

sHe becomes light headed and heavy handed.
But the grooves and ridges attached to the palm of
her hand act as an enabler.
“Thank you to all who have broke my heart” she murmurs.

Her thumb shakily invites the hammer
to an upright position.
But there will be no safe landing once
it has been told to descend.

With both eyes she stares down into the abyss.
A never-ending nothingness.
A funnel of black, a colorless void.

Time seems to slow down,
apprehensive with its ticking.
Trying to give enough of itself to
make right what’s really wrong.

Although she considers it to be
a cruel trick of extending the
worst moment of her life.

Like watching your favorite replay on Tivo,
it sickens her.

As she begins to choose favorably to
Times alternative though,
her doorbell rings…

…and her finger slips.