you move deliberately, slowly, awkward grace stuttering through your limbs. as long as you don't look in the mirror you can believe that you are pretty, beautiful, an object of base desires and dirty fantasies, you are always thinking in bursts of color and words,
blank and full and need. you have no name.
the thing that no one realizes is that you are glass doll fragile, eyelashes painted on with a small tipped brush. you always say that beauty is in the details. your hands shake when you try to light your cigarette, and you try not to breathe.
the boy who once got you cocaine comes to your place of work, and your eyes snap to his face, you drop a bag and momentarily panic before realizing there is nothing in it. he looks at you and smiles. you don't breathe.
you make a phone call, and it goes unanswered. you open the drawer in your bedside stand, razors and stained towels, band aids and gauze and your journal. you reach in and your fingers brush against the seroquel box and the bottle of lithium and you come to a standstill. your fingers drag across the torn edges and you place your palm flat on the plastic holder for double edged blades. they cost you seven dollars, and two minutes of insanity.
you throw back a pill, white and thick. it catches in your throat. you don't care. you turn on the shower, the dial over as far as it will go. you take your shirt off, look in the mirror, and wonder why he gets hard just by having you near him. it makes no sense to you, it never does, you aren't beautiful, you barely pass for average.
you barely remember stepping into the shower, or adjusting the temperature. you only remember the bite of metal on your skin and the way the water turned a sick looking pink and you feel fingers on you, hands. you cried. you wonder why you are doing this to yourself. your hands are covered in blood, layers upon layers of it, and you shake. You know you aren't bleeding enough for this image to be in your head.
you press harder, and jerk your hand back, white hot pain, like getting burned while doing first grill at work, you sob. they are pathetic. you are scarring yourself and they are pathetic and you wish you could do something better, something worth it, and you cry.
you wash your hair and your leg stings.
you think of the seroquel. the lithium. you have enough. you have enough.
a/n: it's egotistic, but I am trying like mad to capture myself on paper, an attempt to understand myself, to understand the things I am forcing myself not to see or remember.