It was dark and I had been here before. The taste of the tears was familiar as they ran onto my lips, softening them with sadness. How was it I was back here again; I thought I had found my escape, and yet the pounding of my beating heart, the tears staining my cheek, and the numbness of my body was all too familiar. Maybe I had never left this place, instead just believed that my temporary sanity had been my cure. How stupid could I have been, how naïve. I wanted to grab at something to keep myself from drowning, but my tears had softened the edges of the cliff I was standing on, and I could feel the edges slipping. There was nothing for me to hold onto, no anchor to keep myself from falling into again. I could hear the waves, even though I couldn’t see them; the crashed against the jagged rocks of my mistakes. This would be my ending.

“I just want to fall,” I thought. There was no glimmer of hope; the only sparkling in this darkness came from my jagged friend; my only security. Who knew how many times he had sung me into sleep when nothing else could calm my fears. I just wanted to feel his beautiful kiss against my skin. The searing way he tore at my flesh until he was drenched in ruby red.

How many times had I been here? God, the carvings were endless and I couldn’t count that high. Bloody tears were what I would cry when my eyes dried up; they were easier to hide. So many things were in my head, and yet at the same time I had only one thought. I was two people, and they pulled at me trying to win over. Good girl; bad girl – there could be no winner in this game; only the loser. Me. I pushed people away so far, that they couldn’t find their way back; not that I wanted them too. I wanted to be alone, didn’t I? Already I could feel the tears beginning to swell in my eyes, and I marked them on my wrists in crimson red that poured down like a fountain. The kiss stung, but I pressed hair. Love was pain; it was better when it hurt. You weren’t beautiful unless it hurt.

The world was fucking me, and I refused to be its whore. I was my own whore, and the only person who could have me was the sharp blade in my hand. It didn’t have to love me, it had me for free. The pain it gave me, the love it didn’t believe in, made me ten times happier than the fake smile I plastered on my lips; it was as fake as the smile they gave me back, or the promises they made when drunk on life and the kiss of a boy who would call them his until someone else came by.

Love was a ruse; a lie.

And what did I need with another lie. Nothing. My life was one great big lie, that I lived everyday. See this smile, covered in salty tears? It was lies enough for me. The only truth I knew came in moments like these when I needed nothing else but myself; I could bleed and that was all the truth I would need. To bleed red and know that I was still alive. That I was in control. I held my own life in the palm of my hands, and if I chose to live no more than I held that too; it was my silver blade, my gushing blood.