My mind is erratic, screaming voices and never ending static.
My eyes, constantly blurring, unable to keep a grasp on reality.
Twitching and shaking, paranoia flooding through my veins
I grab the shiny razor blade, it's glimmer piercing my gaze, saying, "Do it."
I violently drag it across my wrist, over and over, until I come back from this dissociation.
The wounds cry crimson, their sting yelling, "Why do you keep doing this to yourself?"
You know why. To keep a grip on what is real. To not completely lose our sanity. To have control. I run the razor across my skin more times to shut them up. The blood becomes a messy puddle, clotting and splashing. My hands shake, and I touch the pool of sins, validating that it is real, and it grabs my hand. The congealed mess drips slowly, making a "tip, tip, tip" as it slides off of me. Slowly, my vision returns to normal, the static and screaming lessening.
Shit, I did it again. I can't control it. I can't control them. They control me. I wash away the sins of my failure once more, and apply pressure to the wounds that separate me from the sane. I put on the long sleeves, then walk away, pretending nothing ever happened.
As I walk away, the façade of a smile, stitched upon my face, laughs and mocks me.
