A scarred wrist and balled up first. The blade drops.
Rather, I threw it across the room. My hair is sticking to my wet forehead. Pools of sweat under my eyes.
These cuts will heal, the scars will disappear. The secret to wanting to die is not letting people know that you do. You don't cut deep enough so that you see the dark red, shameful blood congregate above your wound. This is what causes the permanent scars, the ones you have to hide with long sleeves. You just cut deep enough to feel something. That sweet pain that lets you know you're alive after being so numb for so long.
You need to have self control, don't let yourself slip. This way you'll only have those scars for a month at most. They'll heal, and look like marks on your skin that were always supposed to be there.
The music is blasting in the background. I'm trying to block out my thoughts. They won't go away. They want the blood, I can't give it to them. My lip is trembling from me biting it so hard. My tears mix with the sweat and run down my cheeks. This isn't pretty, this isn't beautiful. This is not romantic.
My heart is racing, my head's pounding. I feel like I need to run. But with nowhere to run I get up and search for the blade I had just flung to the other side of my room. I need something, anything. I need help. Is what I'm doing that bad? At least I haven't made my way up to the roof yet. I tell myself anything and everything I need to hear to make myself stop. It doesn't work. My thoughts are battling. I feel like I'm suffocating. They're crushing me.
Please help me, I don't want to die.
YOU ARE READING
Numbing Waves
PoetryA compilation of short stories and poems about mental disorders, love, sexuality, and whatever my happens in my life worth writing about. These are the deepest regions of my conscious written down.
