We'd shared stories before. Stories of ripping our skin open and having the ink that writes our future spill out onto cold bathrooms floors or the sheets of our beds. But never had I watched her. I walked through her door, into the pitch black room aside from the lamp in the far corner, illuminating her face with sadness dripping from her eyes. The ink. I walked over, placing my hand over it. The rip in my reality. On her thigh. It covered my hands. It seeped into my veins and it felt like a nightmare. My life flipped. Never had I watched her waste her like away like this.
All of it reminds me of the goriest art with the worst medium. Pen and Paper. Her skin was the paper and her blood became the ink. The paper ripped with every stroke. It all would warp my mind. So beautiful yet so horrible and disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Disgusting. Why was it something to look forward to in my mind but the second it affected someone else it was black and blue and dark? So so dark.
My body was being stabbed with pins and needles every second my hand held hers. My lungs dried and became vacant wastelands. My heart was running a marathon and there wasn't a finish line in sight. Blood. Blood. Blood. So much. So much ink and blood and life leaving.
She looked at me with so much pity and distaste. It was so pathetic, the way I acted. Sadness dripped from my face into the tears of her skin. The ink bled onto the chair with my sadness. My sadness. A life can be filled with so much sadness but you never really know it's there until you see it. The sight was the worst part. It tasted like metal dipped in candle wax. It was the feeling of white paint on cardboard and made me feel so so nauseous.
She was worth so much. And she was throwing all of it away in front of me.
