Broken glass across the floor, hundreds of pieces glittering in the lights,
Blue and red, white and green.
Back turned, I pocket a shard (or two).
"What am I doing?" Later that night,
Sitting on my bed, glass in hand, contemplating the future.
Having chickened out an uncountable amount of times before,
Pain floods my nerves.
The first time is never beautiful
The first time is full of ugly tears, ugly thoughts.
There is no cliche wave of relief. There is nothing but regret.