She Who Must Not Be Named

Tuesday June 7th, 2016 6:22pm

Every time I learn something new about the world, the more hopeless I feel. The less terrible suicide seems. The easier it becomes to look at things and think, I won't miss that. I'd have nothing to worry about, there is nothing to lose at this point. The people that'd be sad suddenly don't even matter. The people I adore that never even knew I adored them so damn much, wouldn't matter. The paintings in my room that nobody even knew I painted because, no one thinks a stupid girl who procrastinates would do anything productive, wouldn't matter. The many nights that I sat up in bed and thought about that old fucking razor in the basket on my table. Resorting back to old ways wasn't very difficult, and I'm not even sure I'd hate myself for doing it. Old times when I hurt myself, it was pussy cuts. And now all I can see myself doing is digging it so deep that there is no stitches that could fix it. I wouldn't mind. The dizziness of losing blood seems like a lot to go through. But, honestly, there is no quick way out of a painful position. And in the end, pain will linger. The dumb little jewelry box that I just had to have full of jewelry that I never wore. The bra I left hanging on the back of my chair and the little house I made for English on the top of my dresser along with the dead flowers from my birthday. I'd let go of everything, and I'd be wearing the pretty emerald earrings from mom, and the most important necklace I've ever worn from the most important boy I've ever met. Some things work out perfectly. Before I let myself go, I want to dance with him. Something slow, something important. I want to make love not have sex. I want to kiss him so passionately that not anything could live up to it. I want to cry on his shoulder and then be okay because, he always makes me laugh no matter what. The days I received brutal honestly would finally make sense. And I wouldn't be able to be angry about it. Because, in the end. The out looker is right. Everyone seems to know me better than I know myself. Realize when I'm sad before I do, realize somethings off. The days I come in quiet to the classroom, and sit on the table and eat that stale pop tart, is the day they'll say we should of known. The moment I don't make jokes about terrible things, laugh like a bird and screech when My friends both try and punch me in the boob. I remember when letting go seemed so difficult. And now look at me. SO CLOSE! I'll steal that wine from the fridge, smash that shaving razor to bits and grab the blade out. That's a sharp razor, I know, I've cut my ankle and the back of my knee with it too many times, watched the blood spread like smoke in the water. Now I know what it feels like to be sad. I truly get it. Some days I wake up and feel like somebody's arms are wrapped around my body and their hands cupped around my mouth and my nose, suffocating me but, I don't care! Because, anything must be better than this! Maybe the wine will numb the sting, maybe a ice cube on the skin. My old method when I really didn't want to feel it. Eat the ice cube and feel the cold drip down my throat, closer and closer to suffocating. So fucking close and here I am. Still! Here I fucking am! I could drown myself in the bathtub, I could slit my wrists, I could drink a ton of bleach, I could down pain pills, take the gun my dad so carefully locks up in that worthless gun cabinet, jump off the city bridge and into the icy water that suddenly doesn't seem so cold! I could forget. I could forget, numb everything and not feel guilty the second I start to bleed. They say hot water helps the blood run faster, makes it a little quicker. I've seen the scenes. The pretty girl in the bathtub, wearing her pretty night gown, the knife on the edge of the bathtub and the water red. Why does every girl die glamorous? I am not glamorous. I'll lie down in that bathtub in my bra and panties, let the world see what the fuck I actually am. See the ugly bitch that lingers so defiantly on my fucking face. I doubt I'll look at peace. When my eyes close, the last thing I'll be thinking is, "God damn it I forgot to tell him I love him..."