Blood spills onto the floor.
I was better where,
I was miserable why didn’t you leave me there?
I deserve this hurt.
I deserve the pain, the embarrassment.
I am a disappointment.
I am heartsick and it is not your job to mend it.
Find someone full of life.
Just leave me here to die.
You seem cold.
I’ve been this way for years.
You’re too young to say that.
I grow faster than most people expect.
You seem tragic.
I was born with it in my veins.
You’re awfully pessimistic.
I’m never disappointed this way.
You have scars on your wrist.
I used to be sad.
You’re not anymore?
I’m not as bad as before.
You look at him like he put the stars in the sky.
I believe he’s magic.
You’re more innocent than you let on.
I have to hold onto something.
You don’t have to pretend to be strong.
I won’t be pretending one day.
The day went by. Different than before, I went outside today. I walked to a coffeeshop and brought along the book and I watched life happen around me. It was beautiful. Things were different today, I looked up in the mirror about the coffeehouse sofa, my face done up, my hair brushed, and a dress covering the frightful sight of an unloved body. I called my mother today, she said she’s come by to see me multiple times, I don’t recall, but I don’t tell her than. I come home while my boyfriend is at a meeting. I think of all the good things that have filled my day. I think of all the hurt that filled the past months.
I don’t remember smashing the mirror. But I do remember the feeling of the glass against the soft flesh of my wrist.
I stared blankly at the mirror across from my bed. My face pale, my expression flat. My hair fell loosely to the sides of my colourless cheeks. I brought a hand to my lips, slowly they were chapped, and I recalled a time when I would go out and paint them a bold red. Now a faint pink sits upon them like they want so desperately to be loved again but they are lacking the strength. I can see my ribs beneath my skin, pressing, screaming to be let out of the home that is destroying itself. I lean over the side of my bed and pick up my boyfriends t-shirt and let it cover the sight of flesh and bone, it was making me ill. It’s also the only piece of clothing in my room that doesn’t reek of tobacco. He never approved of the habit, but it kept me sane for a little while. I looked down at my legs, red lines across thighs from a night when I prayed, if I could only kill the worst of me, I could be better. I lean over the bed again and grab my cigarette carton. I haven’t left the house in about a week, I think. I’m not sure. I haven’t been keeping track of the days, or how many cigarettes I smoke a day, but someone must be replacing packs when I’m sleeping, I sleep a lot these days.
In my bed I hear her.
She calls my name so sweetly.
She performs shows with rubies and pearls.
But the rubies you see, have taken the colour from my bleeding veins.
The pearls, my milk teeth.
But the show is so captivating.
My blood looks better outside my body.
I beg to stay, but she sends me out of sleep.
I wake up to my disappointing reality.
I sat in the tub and drew a line down my wrist.
And the rubies fall down the pearl of the tub.
“Welcome home.” She says
Self destruction is a poem
Written across my skin
“Aren’t you afraid to die?”
“Aren’t you afraid to live?”