There will never be a next time. The knives will stay in the drawer and my eyes will close softly at night, to open clear and white the next day. The world doesn't need to be muffled by exhaustion. I've found The One and his love pads the slicing blow of loneliness. There's no need to cry.
There will never be a next time. The bed will be made every day without me in it, and yogurt cups and unread textbooks won't form unsteady waves across the floor. The curtains will open. I've hit my goal weight and a little dizziness and headaches are well worth sliding sylph-like through the world. The constant calculating is good for my math skills anyway.
There will never be a next time. The car won't shriek against the guard rail as I jerk out of slumber, and I won't sob myself to sleep every night in a strange room so far away. The exam is passed and I've made it. Student loan balance steadily dwindling and the wedding ring smiling on my finger twinkles. Only blue skies to come.
I've caught the tail of that elusive rainbow. The perfect job, the perfect man, the perfect weight. A full-fledged swan and no sign of that wretched duckling. Happily ever after is here.
And I'm lying in the closet, slow steady tears bathing my face, trying to breathe between the stabbing jabs in my ribs and the crushing pressure in my throat. A tiny piece of me wishes he wasn't here, so I could just go peacefully, knowing no one would be left to notice or care. The thought of children terrifies me, the unborn arms reaching out to trap me in this hopeless existence, eliminating the shadowy but always present final escape route.
There is absolutely nothing wrong.
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I wrote this in response to a RemembeRED prompt, which asked us to write about a moment you knew something needed to drastically change. This was the moment I knew I needed to visit my doctor to talk about my "high-strung" personality.