It is the end. I feel the fingers ****** my skin. Tight and itching, I tear the stitching, undoing years of anguish. Stuffing, full and fluffy, falls out red. Strangers stare, over there, unaware that the tare will expose me. I am ghostly, a ravished cloud, swirling in the troposphere. I am lonely wishing someone else was here. Lightening is my skin, searing, blinding, fierce, and then nothing. It hurts, a certain kind of liquid insanity, all red and furious. I would cry if I could remember how, but the paxil makes me an amnesiac. Not losing memories but forgetting how it felt to feel. My stuffing lay scattered a mad mess as if it never really mattered. I am a tiny teddy bear.
Someone screams, and I laugh. Smirking as if I am in on some joke they know nothing about. Stupid people rushing about. My arms become heavy, I am trapped. Still, I laugh because soon I will have beaten the trap. A sick black liquid is forced down my throat. I throw up charcoal, is my blood now charcoal?
Tiny, tiny strings, sing jingling, leave me laughing. I won the race. I doubled down one razor blade and bottle of pills.