i stare at the blood
and my vision blurs
no, not losing consciousness.
zoning out.
my keyboard is fuzzy
and the blood blends into my pale skin
i think i'm feeling
feeling something
something inhuman
hunger?
lust?
anger?
hate?
pain?
the stickiness on the back of my hand
cold
something otherworldly
a flash of my fate
of what i am to do
kill
slaughter
murder
bleed.
i am going to right those who wronged me
i am going to take my revenge
i am going to destroy this world
and everything
and everyone
in it.
including me.
i watch how it flows with the movement of my hand
twisting
turning
twisting my mind
corrupting it
and i do not care.
too many hits.
i've taken too many hits.
and i do not have a will to live.
i tell them, i am not suicidal
i am not depressed
i do not want to die
i just don't have a reason to live
and a part of me
laughs at those words
because every one of them
is a lie.
i am suicidal
i am depressed
i want to die
i do have a reason to live,
but it is not enough.
and maybe it is sad
but it's been four years—
no, five—
and i am used to it.
that was a lie too.
i am not used to it
you never get used to it
copper stains on my skin
affiliated with stitches and scars
is it my fault?
is it theirs?
i do not remember.
i am not okay.
i am bleeding out
i am dying from the inside out
withering away,
becoming ashes on the wind
carried to a better place,
they say
oh, oh love, no.
i did not go up
i went down
and burned alive.
