AN: Warning: Contains content that could trigger some people.
My hands tremble with each word. Each spiralling letter is an effort, but I write it anyway. I need to. I have to get it out. Today I was once again tempted to die. Obviously I'm not dead, or I wouldn't be writing this. But I'm pretty close. To everyone else, I must seem fine; quiet maybe, tired sure, but fine. But the state of my ever-deteriorating limbs says otherwise.
At first it was ankles, thighs shoulder. Unusual places that wouldn't raise suspicion. But soon that wasn't enough. I don't like wrists. They're so exposed, so innocent. The veins are so close to the surface, so palpable, that I fear I'll lose control. I guess that is their allure, though, being so naked. It would be so simple, just one shallow line, tracing the length of my crosshatched arm, and I would be gone. I would dissipate into long-awaited relief.
I love the whole process. Each time I take a sharp object to virgin flesh, not yet smattered with red, I feel the release. My whole body seems to cool ever so slightly, as if hurt is released out of my fingertips. When I wield my weapon, and I enter my private battle, with its trenches of split, reddened skin, I know I will depart victorious. I have the Godly power to choose life or death.
Yet each time I dare to draw back my long sleeves, and expose the beautiful patchwork beneath, I can't bring myself make cut that will bring death. I don't dare go too deep. I can't bring myself to severe the pure, throbbing vein that snakes down the length of my arm. It seems almost
I think, deep down, I know I'm not ready to die just yet, but I know the time is coming soon. I may be alive still, but I am not living. I am merely trudging on, in a hazy stupor, totally void of emotion or caring. The only thing I ever feel, when it dares to seethe its way to the front of my empty mind, is hatred, and sadness. Nothing more. It's like I trapped, clawing at the slippery edges of some unseen prison, drowning slowly, gasping for my next breath.
But I don't give up hope yet. I can't. There is still one tiny beacon, hiding in the dusty corner of my mind. It beckons to me, pleads even, not to give up. It whispers to me, in a soft voice, breathing warmth onto my cold heart. You have barely even lived, it seems to say. And of course, it's right. There is so much I am yet to know in this world. I see only the worst in those that surround me, feel only the coldest of hatred for this harshest of realities in which I live.
Okay, maybe this sounds stupid, or pathetically poetic or whatever, but I can't write any other way. At least if I write like this, I can be honest, I can be distant, from what I have to say. Who knows, maybe this will be the last thing I write, after all. Maybe the little voice, my smallest of hopes, will die, and I'll be left in the darkness, with no one and nothing.
Anyway, the voice is right. I have things I need to do, things I need to know, before I go. Most of all, I am yet to experience love. Sure, I'm young, (too young some would argue) to truly experience it. And besides, who could love me? Weird Violet, with the long clothes no matter how hot the weather? Violet, who smokes indoors, and gets into fights, and always seems sad? All I know is want to feel it. And I want to feel in love, feel alive again. I want to feel the sweet ablution, like the release when skin meets a sharp edge, but instead that of my lips on those of another.
AN: Please, please review! I am here to become better as a writer, so anything you have to say is greatly appreciated. And prompts and suggestions for future stories would also be AMAZING.