Stay

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: True Confessions  |  House: Booksie Classic

This is the truth behind my smile, so if you know me personally, don't ask if I'm okay, I dont want to talk about it.

This is just a way to express how I'm feeling, don't think too much of it, some of it isn't true :)

Stay

(!!TW!!)

 

I have never felt better,

Blood dripping down my thighs,

Tingling sensations shifting.

 

Aren't you proud of what you did to me?

 

Who am I kidding.

I did this to myself.

 

All of the red tears from my arms and legs?

Me.

All me.

 

I deserve this, right?

You told me,

"Be grateful for everything i have given you"

"Everyone else loves me because their parents are shit"

What the fuck.

Haven't you taken my opinion into consideration?

 

Enough questions,

I just want the answers.

 

X=Y?

3.1415?

7.07?

No, not those ones.

 

I want,

"Your life is so unforgiving because of this and that"

"Stop because 'blank'"

I cant answer those for myself.

Im so stupid.

 

I imagine that whenever someone thinks of me,

They hear,

She is so damn happy,

Why cant i be like that?

 

I didn't invite you into my life,

So who's to say I'm happy?

I could be lying here at 2:54am,

Choking on the 32 panadol tablets that i dry swallowed,

Thinking

"Why do i even want to die?"

 

But no,

Lucky you.

You get more comfortable telling me your secret sins,

While i get tormented by bins of my own.

 

"You look kinda sad today, and why are those bags so big?"

Im too tired to hide anymore, too tired.

Too tired from my nights full of nothingness.

Nothingness...

Look it up, the definition-

Noun.

Worthlessness or insignificance.

 

So now you know what I identify with.

 

Thats a lie.

Im such a liar.

A good one, too.

 

Insignificance?

Thats not me.

Im the therapist.

 

I should at least be payed by happiness,

Not even my own,

Yours,

Yours so that i know my job is well done.

 

My job?

Oh, your too young to have a job.

 

Really?

I have a job 25/8.

I have to be so many things,

For so many different people.

 

If you know me,

You know that I'm popiular.

Not that kind of popular.

Everyone knows me cause im weird.

No because I'm pretty or nice,

Because of my hair or the metal in my ears.

They think they can sob with me,

Just because we all slice.

 

They cut to see how much it bleeds,

But I cut because i was pressured...

By my best friends.

I cut to satisfy my needs or the needs of others,

By making space,

By getting rid of the bad things.

 

I cut to remember.

To remember the pain, the grief, the emotionless nights.

 

I remember when i was 6,

I had some kites,

They were covered by rainbows and smiles.

Most of them got blown away in the wind,

But my favourite is still in my tree.

That damn tree.

 

The one where I would climb to watch the sunrise every morning,

The one I would climb with my friends.

 

Now that I think about it, I'm just...

Sad.

 

Sometimes I forget who I am,

My mind only recognises the face from years ago.

Can I even call this me?

 

This me puts on her smile every day,

She stares into her mothers eyes and says,

"I'm okay."

She doesnt mean it.

She just wants to hide.

 

Me?

I want to scream.

Me?

I want to tear off my skin and show you that I'm human too.

I can feel,

Have you forgotten?

I wouldn't  be surprised.

 

Maybe if I left,

You would finally rermember.

 

I have so many options,

I could forget about myself too,

Or I could slit so many places.

What about going back to my old tree?

I could hang there, swaying in the wind.

 

You know,

I had a day where I forgot aout everything.

It was... amazing.

I had forgotten what it felt like to be, well, good.

 

I dont know why I even bother trying anymore though.

It isn't useless, but I know that there will be a time where everything will come flooding back.

 

You ask me if I'm ok,

I hide myself and say "I'm fine".

I have to.

Last time I talked to someone about this sensitivity shit,

They tore at me,

Then they noticed my arms,

Along with the scars that apparently represent me.

They didn't speak to me for days,

Brushing off my problems like it was dust on their shoe.

They left me by myself...

Mentally torturing the little humanity I have left.

 

I'm not depressed, like everyone says,

"It's just my Anxiety playing up."

The blade in my hand can speak for me.

It has helped with the torment I've been through.

 

I'm thinking of ending it.

But how?

Pills?

Rope?

The polished knives in the wooden block?

No.

I need to stay for her.

She would die too,

She has her responsibilities that keep her seated,

Despite the gravitational pull trying to take her away.

Those responsiilities being me, and my family.

 

Forget about the defonition of nothingness,

It is just words,

Words with no more meaning that us.

Re-define it to whatever you want,

But in my mind,

Nothingness means...

 

Stay.

 

 


Submitted: April 15, 2021

© Copyright 2021 Beccas10Scratches. All rights reserved.

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