A razor flashes it's silver tongue and slithers down my wrists; trailing a burning path of red down my arms and thighs.
Pooling beneath my body,
On the cold floor,
Of the only place where I was safe.
Hiding from the demons inside myself.
Where I cried the most tears.
And shed the most blood,
Yet somehow managed to escape,
A few moments in my mind.
The red rolls off my arm and hits the tile, running with the brown cracked grout if the bathroom floor.
A perfect drop of red held time suspended for just one second before a small shower of droplets rained down.
And the worst part is?
It doesn't hurt anymore.
YOU ARE READING
Not me. (2023)
Short Storyso, I've been struggling for a long time now, and I never told anyone about it. I've never opened up. but I met someone who understands how I feel, and I'm beginning to feel again. I don't know how to do it, but I finally feel I can fight. I've been...
