Slice. Slice. Slice.
Threads of red appear on her arms.
That's one for unrequited love. Another for losing a friend. Another for the beatings. Two for the guilt. Three for wanting to end her life.
And one long red string of fate to connect all the cuts.
The blood pours, dripping like tears, and dropping to the floor like a balloon tied down to an anvil. The cuts weren't life threatening; it was no where near any major veins and the cuts were thin like hair.
Yet there will still be the temporary scars, she thinks as she washes her arm in the sink. The wounds have stopped crying. She dries her arm on a rough paper towel, wincing at the roughness but enjoying the pain.
Pain was one thing she could rely on. The one thing that felt real. Pain was a way of telling her she was alive. That she was living a crappy life with more crappy years to come.
Oh let this end already. Every moment is another she regrets. I'm living one more moment than I'm supposed to.
I've lost all reason to live, or maybe I just want drama. Ha. No one has noticed any cuts. No one will know I cut until they find me dead in the bathtub, my wrists slit and blood standing out against the stark white of the bathtub. Hahaha.
I've probably gone morbid, fantasizing about my death. Or maybe I've always been like this. A lonely child. An ignored citizen. The burden. The cursed. the unhappy.
Screw this.
I secretly cry myself to sleep. Tears make me feel real, too. Just another reminder my life is not a dream. Excuse me, nightmare. I'm living in a nightmare. I can't wake up. Can't wake up til I'm dead.
Dead. Die. Death. Dies. Suffer. Miserable. Lonely. Burden. Ignored. Weird. Outcast. Average. Unnoticed. Hated. Loathed. Unloved.
I can go on.
Annoying. Talentless. Weak. Indecisive. Unwanted...
Sometimes I wonder who'll cry when I die. Who'll miss me. Who wouldn't notice. Who wouldn't care. Who wouldn't gave a damn. Who'll use my death to gain sympathy or attention.
Are my friends really who they say they are?
Doubt. Can't trust anyone.
Trust? It's amusing how they word "rust" is spelled inside the word. If its not taken care of, outside elements will ruin it. So fragile, but puts a strong facade.
Hey, world? I hate you.
x-SincerelyAtlas · Mon Nov 15, 2010 @ 09:46pm · 0 Comments |