I want to be held until these tears pour out like a storm. These fucking tears. They just keep threatening me. I dare them every minute to let their hell loose, but they're stubborn. Adamant things. They leap to the edge of my eyelids and taunt me with a few drops. When collected, it's just one line of weak ass but hot tears stretching to my nose level and fading away.
Pressure's mad high in my chest.
Yesterday, I repeatedly punched the wall at midnight with both fists. Bare. I wanted my knuckles to bleed. There was this sweet bitterness that accompanied the pain.
For a second, the thought flashed through my head if this was what self-harm looked like, and if this was how it felt like.
My knuckles were just sore. I stopped at a point because it was grave-silent and the noise would prolly wake up the child sleeping in the next room and that would be disaster-level shit.
I bit down on my skin, trying to take in just the outer layer of skin between my teeth so that the flesh could easily peel, but no blood. I looked around for anything sharp. Nothing in sight.
I ended up pacing like there were burning coals on the ground. It soon turned into jumping steps, like the kinda steps boxers take when ready to unleash death. One two, one two...
I gripped my head and pulled at my locs... Pulled till I felt the pain sear through my skull.
As I write, 8 hours later, I still feel the heaviness in my chest... Like a fucking med is running CPR and keeping her full weight on the down press.
I stayed in the restroom for almost two hours, the enclosure giving me some form of relief. If there was any soft padding on the toilet seat, I'd have stayed there throughout the night.
