She raises the sharp instrument to her face.
Cuts without blame.
Focused, determined, not in a race.
A first cut brings relief.
The second confirms the choice.
A release of fear and grief.
A third, a fourth and fifth.
Swiftness now her driver.
Liberation now catching her fall from cliff.
All done with whispy pieces on the floor.
Already dead now discarded from her skull.
A small battle won in a larger war.
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