Rays in the Dark

But you're not sick anymore.

There's something about poison running through every inch of your being, your mind, your blood. Something always keeps you coming back to it, when your conscience begs you to forget it exists. It destroys everything that you are, everything you worked so hard to get, but you need it again and again. Could it really be so bad if it's the one thing that helps you breathe, that allows you to sleep without nightmares wrecking your sleep as you kick off covers, covered in arctic sweat like beads of ice dripping, slipping, nipping while you shiver uncontrollably in your bed? Is it really so bad if it helps you forget all the bad things, even the ones it causes? You can't tell your best friend the last time you blacked out, even though it was two hours ago. You can't tell him the last time you ate, because he can't know that you're counting again, keeping track of every second you go without nutrients as if it's your lifeline. You won't tell him, even though he swore he was done with the lectures. You know when he's lying.

Once you know how to do it properly, self-destruction is easy. The darkness pulls you in and out of this cruel reality, into a different type of world; a world where it has full control, darkness a wet blanket looming over you, threatening to take you down with it. Will you survive the fall? Will you even begin to notice it in the first place, before your skull splits at rock bottom? They tell you it's easy to realize when you begin to fall apart. Those who swear by that have never done it this way. The fallen never realize where they are until they are looking up at a cruel world, turning just as before, going on just as well without them.

My oh my, what a mess a fall makes. Makeup spilled on the floor and over cheeks, wails echoing through the hall with no care who hears them, doors to bedrooms and hearts slammed and locked as you swear never to let anyone in again. There is comfort in locks, comfort in the warmth of blankets pulled over your tired head, blinds drawn in the middle of the day. In that cocoon, you are warm. You are safe. It's almost as if no one can touch you in the four walls you inhabit.

You can't remember the last time you had a full meal in one sitting, because you're spending too much time calculating all of the other numbers in your throbbing brain. Some numbers are good. Some are bad. Tonight, it's hard to keep them separate. You're not sick anymore, you keep reminding yourself.

No one tells you how hard it is to get out of the hole you dig, but it was so easy to get into it. Shouldn't it be the same, especially if you dug the grave yourself? Shouldn't it be easy to run away from a mess that you made? No, this doesn't make sense. This is excruciating. This is hard, too hard. Why does this happen? Where is the relief, the euphoria? Why is there only confusion, blackouts, and pain? This was supposed to be an easy fix. This was supposed to do something good.

No... something, or everything, is wrong. You put in the work. You did what you needed to do to get the monsters out of your head, your room, your life. Everyone congratulates you after the ceremonies are said and done. That's right, you are supposed to be better. Why don't they understand? That's not how this works.