Red Guitar Pick

She's pouring her heart into a piece of paper and the strings of her guitar. Lyric by lyric, chord by chord, she weaves her tale into a song. She stops when she feels herself breaking down. "How fitting," she thinks when she stares into the pick. It's a deep red. Red like the blood told of in the song. Red like her blood. Red like her blood on the razor-sharp edge of a knife. Red like her hatred of both death and life at that moment. The death that claims the lives of the ones she loves and writes her song and the life that makes it painful and forces her tears despite her resistance. She becomes angry at the pick. Angry at it for being such a perfect metaphor for her life. In her rage she clenches her fist shut as tightly as she can forgetting how sharp this pick has been worn from constant use. It parts her skin and she throws it across the room, a few drops of blood trailing behind. She turns her hand to see a pool of blood welling up on her palm. She can no longer hold in her tears and cries by herself in her lonely apartment. Left alone in the world by the thieving bastard Death.