I am home alone.
The bathtub is warm and inviting and my blade is calling out to me. Tell me, what pleasure has it given you to see me suffer?
I slice the upper part of my thigh, the one just above the recent one ; a fresh, new spot for the fresh, new hatred I feel towards the Earth and its blinding and disgusting lie of beauty.
I turn the dial up and slide in.
The scorching heat makes its way up my body, past my navel, just above my chest. The water now rises to my neck, reaching my chin as it spills over. I hear it lazily overflowing, like how a glass of water spills when it’s too full, or how you jump into a pool and ripples crash over the sides.
I am in the college bathroom, the one right beside my English class, when I feel an attack dawning upon me. My pulse escalates, my heart thumps loud in my chest. I am unable to prevent it and so, I allow it to engulf me. My head rests against the wall, my body slides down to the floor, a wave of fatigue washes over me and a throbbing headache makes itself known.
Just let it pass. Just let it pass.
My legs drag me to the bathroom.
Peeling off my shorts, I am faced with all my pain and insecurities, mixed with dried blood and an ugly pair of legs. I shrug. I need a warm bath. Instead, I take a cloth and soak it in lukewarm water, dabbing it on my cuts to stop the bleeding. It swirls in the sink, the scent of loathing polluting the air ; I dab again.
I look at myself in the mirror – a tired, haggard stranger stares back, the hollow in her eyes scare me. I place a few band aids over the cuts, careful not to press too hard because of the rawness. I stumble out of the bathroom and inhale a deep breath, before going out to face whatever hell Hell itself has brought me.
Crimson drips down my perfectly toned thighs, the slit I made among the others, some healed and some scabbed over with dead skin. I watch it dribble down the side, amazed at how something so intricate could be the very thing keeping me alive.
I’ve thought about it more than once, how freeing it would be to leave such a cruel world of insanity, this place we call reality. The blood trickles down my leg before dripping onto the hardwood beneath me. I twirl the blade in my hands, small cuts appearing as I do so. The ache no longer affects me. If they ask, I’ll just say they’re paper cuts.
how do i feel? in all honesty i feel dead.
drained, tired, gasping for air but nobody seems to take light, only to be ignored.
i can’t knowing i’ve made no progress in my life.
i no longer find joy, in a lot of things, and it’s difficult.
even to feel something genuine now, is difficult.
and sometimes when i do find that genuinity, it’s not what it plays out to be.
so i suffer.
i suffer in silence because it’s easier.
for both ends.
and at the end of the day they move along with their lives and i’m stuck with mine.
but it’s okay.
you know why?
because i’m already dead inside anyway.
these are the words I would choose to describe
more too often am I left to fend.
and so fucking biased.
that’s what you always were
an impious villain.
some days I am the earth —
volatile and shaken
violent and shattering.
some days I am the sky —
calm and eerie
blue and magnificent.
some days I am the sea —
urgent and suffocating
overwhelmed and submerged.
and some days.
Some days I am me
flawed and strong