Holy Water

I read an amazing piece of truth at this certain blog I've been following. I recommend you check it, it's stellar.


The wet tiles on the walls and floor feel like they're supporting my weight. One missing surface and my shivering frame would come crashing into a never-ending darkness. The shower head continues to spray cold needles of water, soaking my hair and clothes, washing away my sin. The thick fabric of my shirt sticks to my chest and heaves along with it as I breathe in and out. My hair, clamped together like dreadlocks submerged underwater. My tears disguised with the water tracks running down my face, one of the reasons I choose to cry in the shower: You can make yourself believe that you aren't. No salty streaks, no hot-headedness. Just the cool water gliding over you until you find the strength the stand back up.
I clutch my arms around my knees and bury my head into them. What would it be today? The balcony, the many pills lying around, the rope, or possibly one of the sharp knives in the kitchen?
Would I have the strength? No, not physically. But mentally, I can twist and turn, run down any dark alley I want. I have been doing it for days. Conjuring some sick ideas to cut my thread and let me fall into hell. I am alone. I am wandering along a dark hallway, looking for a light that's nowhere to be found. Looking for a hand that will be able to pull me out of this depression, but not finding anything.