In the moments like these that I can see, what everyone was trying to tell me. That by hurting myself, I would eventually hurt them, and cause even more pain.
I should have listened.
And now I am stuck here, watching as the blood drips from my arms, the cuts glistening with more red water ready to emerge. I wipe it away, using a washcloth already stained with my blood and wince at the pain as the coarse terry cloth runs my wounds.
I should have listened,
But then, if I didn’t cut, how would I deal with the pain that threatens to overwhelm in moments like this? I don’t know. Writing does me no good anymore, and I have no one to listen to me. They all shied away, my pain too big for them, and too big for me to handle anymore. I know why they went away, why they gave up on me, it’s because I was too focused on myself and I couldn’t handle their criticism anymore.
I should have listened.
But I didn’t. By pushing them away, I thought I’d be able to handle it better and then I wouldn’t have people breathing down my back, worried to leave me alone. And that maybe my mom would stop hiding razors from me and just think I was normal. I was never normal, never in my life. I have always been different, different than those around me, and different from what people saw me as. They always said I was beautiful, that I mattered and that I had no reason to be sad so much.
I should have listened.
They were right; I can see that in the moments like this. I don’t really have reason to be so depressed. I have a good life, a good family, good friends, but still I am depressed and this blood running and swirling into the sink is what I am left with. They all left me, but how can I continue to lay blame on them? I can’t, because I brought this loneliness onto myself. He told me that, on the day I said I had enough, that I was tired of being lonely. He told me that day.
I should have listened.
Who cares now. They left me when I needed them most. I will leave them a note, telling them what they have done and it is their fault that I died tonight. I will write and tell them the wrongs they committed the day they all deserted me, and left me to my own sorrow. I will tell them how they have hurt me deeper than can be imagined, how it is their fault that I will die. I will tell them. But all I can think, is how so very wrong it is to blame this on them.
I should have listened.
I take pen to paper, careful to keep my bleeding cuts away from its white surface. And I write, careful to say what I am thinking. I am done, and take the knife I had so carefully sharpened and bring it to my wrists and slice. And I am done, I have died tonight. The note lies still on the desk where I have left it and the one line seems lonely, so very much like I was.
I should have listened.
And now I am stuck here, watching as the blood drips from my arms, the cuts glistening with more red water ready to emerge. I wipe it away, using a washcloth already stained with my blood and wince at the pain as the coarse terry cloth runs my wounds.
I should have listened,
But then, if I didn’t cut, how would I deal with the pain that threatens to overwhelm in moments like this? I don’t know. Writing does me no good anymore, and I have no one to listen to me. They all shied away, my pain too big for them, and too big for me to handle anymore. I know why they went away, why they gave up on me, it’s because I was too focused on myself and I couldn’t handle their criticism anymore.
I should have listened.
But I didn’t. By pushing them away, I thought I’d be able to handle it better and then I wouldn’t have people breathing down my back, worried to leave me alone. And that maybe my mom would stop hiding razors from me and just think I was normal. I was never normal, never in my life. I have always been different, different than those around me, and different from what people saw me as. They always said I was beautiful, that I mattered and that I had no reason to be sad so much.
I should have listened.
They were right; I can see that in the moments like this. I don’t really have reason to be so depressed. I have a good life, a good family, good friends, but still I am depressed and this blood running and swirling into the sink is what I am left with. They all left me, but how can I continue to lay blame on them? I can’t, because I brought this loneliness onto myself. He told me that, on the day I said I had enough, that I was tired of being lonely. He told me that day.
I should have listened.
Who cares now. They left me when I needed them most. I will leave them a note, telling them what they have done and it is their fault that I died tonight. I will write and tell them the wrongs they committed the day they all deserted me, and left me to my own sorrow. I will tell them how they have hurt me deeper than can be imagined, how it is their fault that I will die. I will tell them. But all I can think, is how so very wrong it is to blame this on them.
I should have listened.
I take pen to paper, careful to keep my bleeding cuts away from its white surface. And I write, careful to say what I am thinking. I am done, and take the knife I had so carefully sharpened and bring it to my wrists and slice. And I am done, I have died tonight. The note lies still on the desk where I have left it and the one line seems lonely, so very much like I was.
I should have listened.
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