In a nook in the foyer, almost unseen, is a gleaming table.

Except for the light blanket of dust, the wood is bare.

Atop it, a polished frame hides in the shadows.

Familiar laugh-lines litter her face

My love, my friend, my biggest enemy.

And she is glowing.

Mouth wide, her smile shines.

A beacon of hope for those lost in the dark.

A beacon for me.

She is flying, leaping off the edge.

Hair whipping in a golden halo.

Her hand is raised, frozen in time.

Is it greeting or a parting?

The sun is just right.

Illuminating below,

The tender spot of her wrist, where

Seven little scars litter her skin.

Short, thin, and even.

She’d done it methodically, I can tell.

I can tell a lot of things about her.

Like the fact that she was sad and wanted a break.

Like the fact that she was frustrated and wanted it to stop.

Like the fact that she tried, but was too afraid.

Until one day she wasn’t.

And just like she took that leap,

She picked up the knife once more.

And this time, she wasn’t afraid.

Now, if only I was as brave.