Depressive Spikes and Etc.

Crimson Angel Stains

Am i not good enough?

Am i not pretty enough?

Am i not tall enough?

Is it because i don't have large assets?

Is it because I don't act like his whore exes?

what is so wrong with me that he's overlooked me for the 6+ years

We've been friends?

Why?

These questions tear at my brain in this empty house, cold, dark, and

quiet. But after each time I roll through these questions, they get

louder and louder, till I hear them screaming in my head and realize

I'm screaming, not thinking. I repeat them slowly aloud, listening,

frightened by the serpent voice replying to me.

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Yes

Everything

Because he hates you

Screaming and hissing in my ear.

Slice

Slice

Slice

Slice

Over and over I listen and do as i'm told, until i lie in my warm

crimson puddle, soggy and slimy, crying and smiling, 'oh pleasurable

pain' I think as I swish my arms and legs the way little kids do in

the snow. I roll on my side and press my hands into the blood around

my head print. I slit my wrists and lay down in my angel print, feeling the calm serenity of death wash over me. I feel myself lift off the ground. I see my body, my bloodstained pretty white dress. My final thought as I float away with the reaper... Tessa is what she called herself...

Was:

I wonder what the police will think of this? Will they see the beauty

in the ugliness? Or will they slap the label psycho on it and move on.

I hope they see the sorrowful joy i poured into my own death...

I Hope....

I...

...

..

.

And everything went

dark.