I've come to love the sight of my own blood. Drip, drip, dripping down my pale arm like thick red ink, a strong smell of metal lingering in the dense silence of the dim bathroom.
I stand up on the toilet seat and crack the tiny frosted window above it open and breathe in the cool night, pretending I'm in one of those forgotten indie movies, with the icy wind curling my unwashed hair and drying the blood welling up in my palm. No one would ever make a movie about me, though. It would likely be abandoned before it even started; a few letters on a page; one reel of tape. Nothing much else.
Who could ever love me?
Ugly,
Stupid,
Worthless.
But even though I'm scared of life, I'm even more scared of death.
