heartbreak in many forms

Hardly 4am

(Mentions of emetophobia or fear of sick, self harm and suicide. Proceed with caution)

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I had thrown up. Again. Seemed to be an endless cycle of hurt. And afterwards, I'd go crawl meekly back into my pathetic bed, the place that trapped me in my thoughts, and torture myself again until I needed to rid myself of the painful and dark thoughts tormenting me constantly.

Until I needed to throw up again.

I turned to my alarm clock, a stupid gift given to me by my fucked up family to get me away from my phone during the long hurtful nights. But wet in my eyes blurred my vision and the sadness of the memories had started already, causing me to only close my eyes and feel salty, warm tears trickle down my bruised face from beating and slicing it.

Death. That's all I saw. He smiled whilst putting the too many pills to his perfect lips, and only uttered a weak, dishonest apology before swallowing them all and dropping. And no matter how fast I ran, I'd never get him. I would never get him intime to save him. But, despite the logic, I still tried. I ran. The bones of my body rejected it all and pain seared up my body but it didn't matter because I needed to get to him. Needed to get the perfect boy who was leaving my life on his own accord with nothing as much of an explanation. But his body was slipping through the void of black he appeared in, and the light surrounding him dimmed the closer I got, no matter how much my weak arm extended, he was just too far. He was falling. He was smiling. He was happy but he was gone. Death. Death took him from me. From me, from life. The life we were meant to have, but death took him and he was gone. He wouldn't be mine anymore. He wasn't mine, he was always going to be deaths. I could never have him myself- of course not. His lifeless body, smiling so sweetly despite no more life or love in him? was falling beneath me and the last words he uttered was "sorry". Fucking sorry. A pathetic, unnecessary apology. I should be apologising, I couldn't get there time and yet he apologised. Frustration fuels my lungs, there's a swelling in my eyes and my bones urge to be broken.

But then I wake up, and I run to the bathroom and I throw up.

He's not dead. He can't be dead. He's still mine

Death doesn't have him yet.

I can't sleep again. Not after that. The trusty, rusty blade that lives beneath my pillow comes in handy at this time. Every night, without fail, it's cold useless metal finds its comfort in my skin, sinking deep into me as it drags down and across my back. It hardly stings anymore- it had been 5 years if this anyway. Only now it became more prominent due to the nightmares. My useless back and legs were covered in the markings that they left blood that occasionally dripped from my lip from when I bit it too hard.

It was hardly 4am, and yet every night it was the same shit. The aching came finally and my back stung with any sort of contact with my clothes. My favourite hoodie would drape down and be carefully placed at the end of my bed as silent hisses of pain would leave my mouth before my eyes finally let themselves close again. This time, I wouldn't have the nightmare. But the next night, the next night would be the same. The same chain reaction.

At this rate, it would keep happening until my back fell off. I had to stop my thighs so that he wouldn't notice in the first place. I never take my top off unless its 4am so he would never see the damage these nightmares have caused.

And that's the way I needed it to stay.

That memory would remain unprocessed until the day I die, which I hoped would be soon.