Made: Saturday, November 14, 2009

Time: Unknown

--

Mind blank.

Eyes unnatural.

The voice is speaking,

Telling me to do it.

I do.

The glass is too big,

The razor too dull,

No scapel,

Knives too dull.

Break the glass.

The smallest works.

Try top of hand first,

Barely works,

Then the wrist.

Blood pools out slowly,

Carefully,

Unsure,

Like me;

Then bubbles down.

I like it.

I taste it.

Rustic,

Delicious.

Make another line,

Then another,

And another,

And another,

And some more.

Some work.

Some don't.

Some bubble and spill over,

Some barely breach the surface,

Some don't do anything.

I drink it all up.

Blood still leaks over,

Wet now.

I stare at it;

Engrossed,

Mystified,

Worried,

Regretful.

It tells me not to be.

That I deserve this.

I'm nothing.

I'm worthless.

I hate myself.

I hate the world.

I hate you.

I hate me.

I hate everything.

I make another cut.

Stop.

Wipe off the blood.

Cover it up.

Stop it.

It stops.

Stare at it again,

Frowning,

Near tears,

Not crying.

The voice speaks again,

Describing what I am,

How I've always been.

This is what I deserve.

I am nothing.

I agree.

I am numb;

My arm burns.

It feels nice.

Looks like nothing.

Nobody will notice.

Nobody will care.

It doesn't matter,

Not important,

Not to me,

Not to them.

I'll do it again anyway.

Not now.

Some other time

Maybe.

The others screaming for me to stop.

I did.

They're crying.

I disappointed them,

Like everyone else.

It makes me sad.

I don't cry.

The voice tells me to,

But I won't.

It says I'll fall asleep,

Dream of nothing,

Wake to nothing,

Be nothing,

Forget,

Then remember,

And hate myself.

I believe it.

I regret it.

Too late now.

It's done with.

It's over.