I'm sitting in the middle of my room. It's in my hands and I just stare at it. The metallic shine it has, my eyes that reflect, looking back at me. They are dull and tired and still seem to be judging. My own judge me. Taking a deep breath I hold it out before me and sigh. Waiting for the courage to fill my lungs, my chest, my body. It hasn't come yet.
I hold it to my arm, nothing. Just fear, and hate. I hate myself for being weak, I hate the knife for being still, I hate the world for making me afraid to hurt. It's all I have done. It's all that I am it seems.
I shout and curse throwing it across the room. I can't do it.
- - -
Lying awake that night I couldn't stop the thoughts racing through my mind.
You're a coward
You're insignificant
You are not enough.
I curl in a ball and try to close my eyes. It seems pointless though. I still hear it. Over and over again in my mind. I hate myself. Not the thoughts because I know they are right. I am pointless, just like my attempts to hide from those thoughts.
I don't know what else to do. I can't do it. No one would see it the way I do. Something that needs to happen. I'm just full of myself thinking I am that important to matter in such a way.
---
I'm done.
YOU ARE READING
Solitare
Non-FictionWhen there is no one to fight and no reason to run, how do you handle your fear? You don't.
