My fingers jitter, red wet fingers struggling to hold on to the blade.
My family is over me,
over me and the constant burden of having to accommodate with my mental illnesses.
They won't ever admit it out loud but we all know that life would be slightly more easy for them had I actually succeed my first attempt all those years ago.
My friends are done with me,
done putting up with my overwhelming sea of toxicity that I wash them offshore with.
And only when I notice them on the verge of drowning to death is when I wash them back onto the shore with a false sense of safety and an empty promise to never suck them into my deep dark death trap again, wanting them to accompany my misery.
I hate myself,
hate that's harsher than the nasty words and slurs that have sunken into my skin over the course of my entire life.
Hate that makes me physically cringe at my own reflection.
Hate that makes me want to torture this body I'm living in.
No, not living, existing.
I stopped living the second I took my very first razor blade to my skin just to get through the day.
Letting the blade create a pretty red picture on my arm.
A picture that oh too many people misinterpret.
I don't do it for attention, I don't do it because it feels good.
I do it to feel, to feel the aching pain instead of my constant numbness.
To feel and focus on the physical pain rather than suffering from emotional pain, that I can never seem to get rid of.
Except for tonight, tonight I let the blade drag carelessly along my skin. Not concerned about the picture it paints but wanting to make sure I find the right vein for it to penetrate.
The right vein to finally put an end to this never-ending pain.
I think tonight might be the night, the night I finally do everyone some good. The night I finally succeed at something.
Living a life as a failure, only ever succeeding at death.
YOU ARE READING
On The Edge
Poetry"On The Edge" is a collection of poems I write when struggling through a depressive episode or when I'm resisting the urge to self-harm. Trigger Warning: poems include subject manners such as self-harming, suicide, assault, eating disorders, etc...
