I have never attempted suicide with the intent to die, but only to scare myself into wanting an unsustainable, dream-like relief again. That dream presents itself as taking a breath that doesn't rattle me to the fucking core. I enjoy playing games with myself, that's why I'm still here. I threaten my own life- I am the bullet, the trigger, the man behind it, and the child weeping for his imminent death below the hand that feeds a gunpowder grip.
Every day I switch roles and become something new and exciting.
Every day a whimsical voice drifts lightly from the mirrior, and whispers without a hint of ominousness, "don't test me, kid."
He drags me over to the glass by my neck, and abruptly raises his tone to affirm the sincerity and severity of the previous threat that his original tone hadn't quite captured.
"I'll do it!"
He screams this at me through the mirror every morning and every time I pass it. The voice is like the one I use, though it is raw and hoarse. This voice allows all the grief and pain and anger that I keep in a reflective cage to seep into his speech pattern and vocal articulation. I no longer allow my gaze to follow where my brain- naturally upon hearing a voice, demands that it travel. But I know what he wants me to do. He tells me every day, whether I'm looking or not.
I know exactly what I can do to fix it, to make it stop, to give myself the rush that I need to get through the day. It involves the unglamorous destruction of the glass that stares back at me every day and a fucking dream.
