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It’s found me.
Time after time, whether I was happy or not, it’d find me.
And here it is once again.
I know that this is it. After all, this feeling could only belong to it alone.
My chest feels numb and heavy with dread, my mind cold and somber. I’d rather it pain me than feel nothing.
Anything but this numbness.
.
.
I feel… nothing.
.
I want to feel something. I think…
I need to feel something.
I need to let it out before something bad happens, like forgetting that it exists.
It’s bad because letting it out is proof that I could potentially end my life one day. It’s proof I could eventually make it to where I’d have to be checked on every hour to make sure I’m not smothering my head under a pillow, or using a shard of glass to draw blood. Hypothetically, if I told someone about my suffering but provided weak evidence, I might as well not have said a thing.
.
I know I should let it out. I know that, but…
I’m still unable to bring myself to do so.
Why am I trying to hide from it? The consequences of my emotions and my lack of healthy coping skills. It’s only common sense that I acknowledge them, as well as act upon them. I don’t get to avoid this.
Even though I’m afraid things will get messy.
Even though I’m afraid of getting caught.
Even though I’m afraid of the pain it’ll bring.
Even though I’m afraid.
.
.
.
It’s soothing.
It doesn’t hurt, at least for now.
Dragging that razor along my skin is what I needed.
The itch dissipates into the air through the numerous wounds. The urge to mess myself up lingers.
Keep it up. If you’re going to do this, might as well make it noticeable.
The sting lasts for a second, the burn comes later.
.
.
I don’t know if it’s working. I don’t know whether I still feel numb or not. I don’t know if I’m happy I didn’t just work on an unfinished project, talk to someone, anything.
I don’t know anything
.
The blood keeps dripping; it shows no signs of slowing down. At least it’s pretty. The density of it makes everything more beautiful as it falls into the water below, swirling with it to create a harsh symphony of reds: both pigmented and transparent. Dots and blobs decorate the sides of blank white.
Then, in the blink of an eye, the toilet spins the bloody concoction around and swallows it up.
It’s gone.
This distraction gone, and I’m forced to be aware again.
.
Cleaning blood is mostly never anyone’s favorite pastime — except for a murderer’s. Which I am not. At least, for now.
Yet here I am at late hours of the night, patting what could possibly be the world’s flimsiest toilet paper up and down my forearm.
.
It burns.
A big price to pay for relief, I don’t know if it was worth it.
A weight was lifted off my shoulders. It’s shaped like me. It is me, with the addition of horns spouting from my head.
If someone asked me to spot the difference between it and the current me, I’d search futilely until the end of time.
I lie too much. I lie to everyone because I’m selfish, and want to prevent difficult conversations.
I don’t know if I’m happy as a liar.
.
There’s an old t-shirt wrapped around my arm. It’s going to stick on it unless I rip it off.
.
It’s continues to stick.
.
My bed feels cold.
My head feels empty
My heart feels heavier than before, and I don’t know why.
.
.
Why…?
I can’t help but want to know why.
Why do I feel the need to do this?
To injure myself just to feel like I’m considered at risk?
To lie about my wellbeing to everyone who asks just to avoid talking about it?
To act like I want to be alone during times like these?
What I truly want is to be held close and comforted in the arms of a dreamer.
I want a bright star to tell me that everything’s okay, that I’m not alone anymore.
I want the canary with that angelic voice to dress my self-inflicted wounds and kiss them better.
I don’t want to march towards an untimely death, knowing that their love for me surpasses the length of time itself
I want to accept their care and comfort, and I want to accept it with open arms.
And yet this heart of mine will never allow that.
It’s painful, but I just need to reassure myself that it’s for the purpose of never feeling that pain again, for everyone I’ve negatively affected to never feel that kind of pain again.
To apologize for my very existence.
If I never let them in, that overfilled bottle that’d been steadily collecting will finally have had enough and spew its contents on the freezing bathroom floor.
Two minutes until there’s too much lost to be saved, until I’m 6ft below.
That sin-ridden blood that belonged to none other than me, Kamishiro Rui.