Dear Estella,
I try, I try so hard, but I don't succeed.
I felt like taking the broken ruler from my geometry box and making a clean, neat and straight (but how is that possible when I'm not straight myself) line across my wrist, and see bright, red blood trickle down my hand like tears trickle down my cheeks, and to see the red patch it would make on the white tiled floor and how the blood would smell so good, oh so good, like salt and minerals and metal, all hard and sturdy and strong, and boy do I want to be like my blood, but I didn't, no, not this time.
But I'm not hard, I'm not sturdy, and I'm not strong and how much ever I try convincing myself otherwise, that's still going to remain a fact.
But I'm not crying, nope.
I'm keeping my promise.
Love,
Azura
YOU ARE READING
Dear Estella
Short StoryBecause sometimes, you can't tell her by your tongue, so you tell her by your hand.
