If you're sensitive to things, here's your warning.
When he leaves, I fall apart.
I am weak.
My mind leaves my body and it's like I'm floating above myself, watching as I go to my bathroom.
Dig through my drawers until I find it.
A razor.
The stress of the last few weeks is physical. My spine curls in on itself until I'm collapsed in a heap on the bathroom floor.
All there is is pain.
I need to make it stop.
Edward.
Everything seems so helpless. Hopeless.
The razor makes neat criss-crossing lines of red on my arms.
Some maybe too deep, some not; just enough.
I can't breathe.
My heart pounds.
My throat closes in on itself.
I blindly reach for the bottle of Xanax on the bathroom counter.
Pour some out, pull myself up enough to drink from the faucet then I lay back down.
I don't know how long I stay on my bathroom floor.
I'm exhausted. So much so that I don't hear my front door being pounded on.
I just want to sleep.
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See you later today!