Laying down as I write this.
Hoping for sound.
Blasting dark music of the piano.
Feeling even more anxious about myself.
Mom over there on her phone gaming.
Her show isn't playing.
Quiet time.
My chest slowly moving upwards then falls back down.
Anxiety begins to form.
My doubts slowly begins to chase after me.
My darkest days becomes a reality.
The music from the piano begins to cut me through my thick skin.
Screaming I wish you was dead.
Quiet time.
Quarantined in the house we're the spirit of my grandmother watches over me.
I picked up my knife and just looked at it.
Wishing that if I still have the guts to cut more.
No, instead I put it back where it was at and stared at my wrist.
Seeing the invisible scars that was once visible.
Look at my right leg staring at the visible scars I had on there.
Quiet time
I go to a friend who was like a brother to me.
To calm myself down.
Before I began to think about cutting once more.
And explain everything to him.
To calm myself down.
But I still feel numb.
Quiet time.
YOU ARE READING
The Selfless Me
Non-FictionSometimes, I just want to write out my feelings, y'know. It's okay to write what's going on in your head. It's okay to open a clean page and just write all the things you've held onto. It's okay to let loss on a piece of paper with a pen/pencil at...
