481

[saitaina]

Originally published at Memoirs of a Nobody. You can comment here or there.

I want to slit my wrists, to see if I’ll still bleed. To see if there’s anything inside me that still makes me human, instead of a porclin doll with a smiling face.

I smile so much it fucking hurts. And it’s so fake the mirorrs should crack. I’ve cried myself to sleep every night, only to wake up and smile again. I’m so, so tired of seeing faces smiling back at me. I want someone to look at me and realize it’s all a lie, and yet I can’t bear to have anyone see behind the mask.

I miss him. I miss him so much that I claw at my skin, trying to get the pain out of my body. I’m thankful I don’t have nails or I might have no flesh left.

It hurts so badly I want to vomit and nothing is inside me but bile.

I keep berating mum for her habits and yet I’m hiding razors from myself. You can’t hide something from yourself, you always know where it is. And it’s constantly there, ticking at the back of your mind, whispering to you, seducing you. It’ll tell you how much better you’ll feel, how nice, how free.

Eveything lies, even a piece of metal.

And still you think of it, taste for it. My mouth is coppery, I think I bit my tounge.

I feel like I’m going insane, but that’s not possible as you don’t know when you’re going insane. It just happens and you never realize it until everyone around you has backed away for their own safety and you’re sitting in your front yard with tin foil for a hat screaming at the neighbors for putting snakes in your air conditioner.

I’m so tired. Can you be exausted if you don’t actually live? I want to sleep but my dreams scare me too much. So much darkness. I hate the darkness. I’m tired of it. So dark, too dark, always dark, DarkDarkDarkDarkDark.

Stupid dark.

Now I taste acid.

Stupid tastebuds. Stupid everything.

If you stare at my wrists long enough, you can see faint lines. So small and faded you wonder if your eyes are playing tricks on you, like staring at the sun and seeing white dots. I used to have a hundred of them, give or take fifty. Angry and red, one time bleeding. My arms were smeared with blood. I collected it in a vial and kept it with me for monthes.

Now their faded little illusions, you have to look so close that it’s not even worth it to try.

I lost that vial…I miss it. I keep tracing the lines, the bracelets of pigment that no one can see. If I close my eyes I can picture them, feel them. See the wash of red, so deep and rich.

So tired…so much pain…