Broken and Gone.
--
Broken.
The razor blade glides across my smooth, pale skin.
Broken.
Leaving behind,
A trail.
A fine trail of glistening red.
As shiny droplets fall,
Fall and fall,
Down and down.
Splattering,
Thick on the bathroom tiles.
The razor blade moves willingly up my arm.
Cutting the fine hairs,
Cutting the translucent skin,
Cutting into the built up pain.
The hurt.
The sorrow.
Cutting away at the layers,
Soon to be back again.
--
My arm, red and weak,
Falls to my side.
Drained.
Of blood,
And of life.
I am drained.
So tired,
So weak.
So easy to stop the hurt.
So easy to feel the short release the razor brings.
My arm itches.
I feel...
Dirty.
Ashamed.
Lonely.
I scratch at my arm,
Blood seeps under my nails.
--
I scratch at my face.
Red lines show up,
Red lines that will be questioned.
By peers, and family.
So many questions.
Never leaving me alone.
Can't they understand?
I want to leave.
I don't want help,
I don't want to go back to normal.
I want to leave.
The blood reeks,
stings my eyes and nose.
I crawl to the mirror.
My eyes, bloodshot and tired,
Stare at me.
At this person.
I do not know this person.
She took choices, wrong choices.
It's too late,
To go back.
To fix the damage.
To change her ways.
No,
Leaving is easier.
Leaving eases pain.
Leaving is,
Good.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
Goodbye.
--
She collapses.
She twitches in pain.
Hush now,
The pain will soon cease.
The empty panadol container rolls,
Out of her hand.
It clanks on the bathroom tiles.
Too quiet to be heard.
She breathes,
Harshly.
Each breathe paining her throat,
Her lungs.
She gasps,
And lies.
Still.
Forever.