Hell Is For Heroes

I ran the blade under my thumbnail, scouring dirt with the tip, and stared aimlessly at the street. Switchblade thoughts clicking, metronomic stilettos on wet paving, drawing closer. In this sleeping wakefulness, this illusion of life, she never arrives; waiting, as you do, for endings, or new beginnings, becomes strictly habitual. They say hell is for heroes, abide there with fiery halos and tickertape ash. I ran the blade under my thumbnail, pressing harder, drawing blood, a singular jewel procreating, welling then dripping, dripping. I’m no hero, just a deadening excuse like the rest. And yet it still feels like hell to me.