Before I picked it up and slit my wrist, I had spent countless hours staring into that broken mirror. It was the only thing that made me feel beautiful. It was the only time when my reflection didn’t grimace in disgust. But as I sit here now, bleeding out on the bathroom floor, I realize how distorted my self-image truly was. I had become enthralled with the idea of being broken and damaged, and the only way to feel beautiful was to embrace my own destruction. It’s a haunting realization, but one that I’m too late to do anything about. The damage has been done, and now all I can do is watch the blood drain from my body and pray for a quick death.