★ 𝒕𝒂𝒚𝒍𝒐𝒓 𝒔𝒘𝒊𝒇𝒕 𝒊𝒎𝒂𝒈𝒊𝒏𝒆𝒔

-𝒔𝒕𝒂𝒓𝒔 𝒂𝒓𝒐𝒖𝒏𝒅 𝒎𝒚 𝒔𝒄𝒂𝒓𝒔

[trigger warning—self harm]

———

The intense anxiety quells down with a slowness that feels like a slug squirming, disturbing you for its entertainment, before fully disappearing and leaving a numb, hollow feeling.

A ragged breath leaves you as the knot in your abdomen finally loosens, and a wave of serenity washes over you. You focus on the warmth of the burning blood, eyes fluttering shut at the feeling of pleasure coursing through your veins and bones, replacing the blood that was recently taken.

Once the almost overwhelming satisfaction settles, your vision clears to a messy and damp surface of skin. It just looks so pretty and dehumanizing at the same time. You drift in a haze between being nauseated at the sight yet comforted at the gruesome nature.

You reach for the paper towel, ripping some off and wiping the blood, which oozes more and has you shakily grabbing for another. The wounds finally close after numerous maroon-stained papers, and you bunch them all up, throwing them in the trash can.

You wash your hands, struggling to get the hand soap out, before quickly drying them and shoving the sleeves of your sweater down. The material is soft enough and covers the sensitive cuts, but you can still feel the pulsing heat under the wool.

The soap has run out, but you suddenly feel exhausted, as if the razor drained your energy alongside the leaking blood. Weariness fills your aching bones and body, substituting the anxiety. All you want to do is sink into the nearest void and briefly disappear.

Forever sounds good, too.

Opening a cabinet, you toss the razor in and close it, not bothering to wipe off the droplets of blood that decorate its sharp edge.

You distinctly remember your headphones last seen in the living room, and you reach for it the second it's in sight, slipping it on and melting into the couch pillows. Quickly putting on a playlist, you spot a book on the table and reach for it, inspecting it before opening the first page.

It's a random, short novel, but it's enough to get lost in. It's all you can manage right now, and you're grateful for the short-lived peace you created.

The music adjusts your mind from slowly wandering, to quiet. Just quiet and absorbing the inked words that rest under your fingertips, a different world you enter.

You flip the pages, welcoming the comforting words and familiar escape. 

———

You feel someone's eyes on you, and hear a muffled noise, looking back to see Taylor taking off her shoes. "Hey. How was the studio?" You ask, slipping off the headphones and trying to float back into reality.

"Good! Got some stuff done with Jack. Have you eaten?" Her voice rings out in the empty house, piercing your ears when your thoughts were muffled with cotton not too long ago.

"No, I was waiting for you. But I'm not really hungry right now."

She raises her eyebrows at that, putting her purse on the dining table. "Did you have anything?"

"Just some snacks. Don't have much of an appetite," you quietly respond, finger curling to pick at a stray thread of wool on your arm.

Surprisingly, it's the truth. Since your stomach began to flip with anxiety, you couldn't entertain the idea of having proper food. Even after resulting to cutting—the word makes you want to shrivel, as if thinking it makes it real—it only worsened, and the prospect of eating makes you nauseous.