therapy is speedie's brand new drug

Ash sat on the stiff couch, her fingers tense on her purse. She had made it out of a crappy pencil holder, safety pins. She didn't like how boxy it was, bouncing against her fragile legs, the reasons she was here. He sat in the chair across from her, legs crossed at the knee, his pressed pants pulled up at the calf to show off his tan golfer's skin. He had a clipboard in his lap, pen ready, eager to listen to Ash's problems. Ash could feel the razor hiding in her waistband. THANK GOD THE BLADE'S RETRACTABLE. They talked about bullshit, nothing Ash had to think about. Until he asked her why she was here.

dancing with the devil's past has never been too fun

Ash knew the reason behind it all. Her depression, her crazy thought process, the voice that came and went throughout the years, the loud shrill one pounding in her skull, louder, louder-

She never told a soul. Never would. Certainly not this asshole. She gestured to her wrists, criss-crosses of scabs teasing up her forearms. He said this was nothing, easily cured, as long as she hadn't tried to kill herself or anything. Ash gulped.

it's better off than trying to take a bullet from a gun

That day grew hazier the more she tried to remember. The slick prowl into the bathroom, door closed, lock clicked. Nothing out of the ordinary. Until that door was firmly shut and the fan turned on. The fan meant to suck out the moisture, the foil bathroom smells, but used instead to blur out the sounds of puking, the rip of band-aid wrappers, and now, the hunt for something deadly. Ash's fingers fumbled over the cleaning supplies, fingers settling on the Raid, the bug killer. The warning label said toxic. That was enough for her. "That's why I'm here. I fucked up."

And she cries:
Hey baby can you bleed like me?
C'mon baby can you bleed like me?