She let the anger rise. It began to take over, filling her eyes with hot tears that pour down her face. The drops fall onto the floor, soaking into the carpet until there is a small dark splotch in front of her. Every muscle in her body is aching to react, every vein is coursing with venom. It takes all of her self control to stop herself from doing something she'll regret tomorrow. But what is regret in anger anyway? It's just an excuse for the weak.

She opens that back drawer deep in her closet, and digging beneath mounds of clothes she searches. Past tee-shirts with band names, and boy cut underwear, and a myriad of colored tank tops, there it is. Wrapped in a torn handkerchief is her long held friend. It's cold from disuse, buried here for months, almost unforgotten. The metal on her fingertips brings a smile to her face. She runs her thumb gently over the blade, ready to see it in action again. The handle fits so perfectly in her hand. No matter how long it's been, and it's been just a week and a half short of 6 months--just about the time it usually happens-- it still fits like clockwork. She doesn't forget the motions, doesn't forget the precautions and the details that go with it. Instead they flood back to her and she knows exactly what to do and how to do it. And it's funny that it's almost been 6 months. Since he came into her life, she hasn't been able to make it to 6 months. It's as if life lets her be until it knows that she's about to find the strength to continue, and then it strikes.

And she doesn't fight it. She will let it happen once again. There is no reason not to. Everyone who knows, says they care. But they never ask her about it, they never bring it up, they act like it doesn't exist. And she doesn't speak a word anymore. And they never know. She thought that by telling people about her most hidden sin, that they would keep her accountable and stop her from hurting herself. But no one cares. He said he cared and that he would never let her go back to hiding it again. And yet she doesn't even have to try to hide it from him because he's not even looking. No one is looking.

And she likes it like that.

That blade is heavy in her hand, and she knows it's time. She gets the bandages and lays out her poison on the counter in the bathroom. With a satisfied smile, she shuts and locks the door, even though she's alone in her apartment anyway. With the click of the door, the clock resets itself and the anger takes over.

And no matter how much she tries to stop it, her addiction wins again.