At this point, my only friends are the ghosts inside my head.
The ones that remind me of every time I have messed up in my life,
That tell me, every time I hear a song from a musical I’ve been in,
Or a line from a show I’ve helped with,
Or something an old friend used to say.
Every time I hear one of those it reminds me how much of a ***** up I am.
How I’m talentless.
How I’ll never be one of the choir kids to go to a contest anymore.

I’m nothing more than a mistake.
I’ve searched, for a long time, for one thing I’m good at.
I enjoy things like theatre, until someone gives me that look.
The look that says they’re shocked that I could be that bad at something.

Both of my teachers have given me that look.
My best friends have given me that look.
The boy I fell in love with my freshman year has given me that look more times than I can count.

So.. I quit.
I quit choir.
I quit band.
I quit drama,
And musicals,
And plays,
And being stagehand.

I quit drawing.
I quit writing.
I only write anymore to throw my emotions out on a page like it’ll help-
It never does.
I just end up taking it out on myself either way.

My only friends are the ones inside my head,
Because they are the only ones honest with me.

I know that they are right when they say I am pudgy,
And too short, or too feminine.
I know that they are right when they say I will never achieve my dreams of living in Washington Heights,
Working at small time theatres-
Because that would mean someone would have to love my audition enough to actually cast me.

I’ve only ever gotten into shows where they accept everyone.

My only friends are the ones inside my head,
Because they see things the way I see things.
That the red scars decorating my thighs make me a little more beautiful.
Or that people will only love me when I am skin and bones.

I know that I will never dance or sing again,
But that will not stop me from trying to win the beauty pageant that is life.
I want to be the skinniest.
I want to be nothing but skin and bones and muscle.

I want to be beautiful.

And the voices, like true friends,
Want me to pursue that dream.

And the voices, like true friends,
Want me to die.
Because that is my dream.
And true friends support your dreams,
And wishes,
And the like.

These voices in my head want me as gone as I want me gone,
As much as everyone else wants me gone but won’t admit it-
But they admit it. They say it loudly.

According to a quick google search,
It takes the average adult 7 full minutes to die by suffocation,
Meaning that in under ten minutes,
I could just lay on my bed and die.

Part of me wants to.
A big part of me wants to,
Whether or not I get called a quitter,
Or called sick, grotesque names
Or have a memorial service at the school.

Everyone would forget me after the obligatory memorial anyways,
I remind myself.
One assembly and my story would be gone.
One assembly and my face will never again see the light-
I wouldn’t regret it.
Just like how I only regret trying whenever I get caught.
Reminding myself that it’s best to do when no one will look for you for a few hours.

According to a quick bit of math,
From the time I wrap whatever I find around my neck and suffocate myself,
To exactly the moment I die seven minutes later,
Almost eleven people will have died.
One will be in the process as well.

I just want to be one of the ones every forty seconds,
I want to be free.
I just want to be free.
I don’t want to feel,
I don’t want to touch,
I don’t want anything much.

I want darkness.
A void.
The feeling of never waking up.

I already feel the void in my gut,
What is the difference that in seven minutes I will feel it everywhere?

It only takes seven minutes to suffocate physically,
But it only takes an instantaneous second to feel suffocated with anger in my own chest.
It bubbles and settles in the dark pit of my stomach,
A feeling I can only actually get rid of if I slit open my thighs on repeat.
The same action on repeat.
Repeat.

It only takes seven minutes to suffocate physically,
But it only takes an instantaneous second to feel suffocated with pain in my own chest.
A feeling I can only get rid of if I slit open my wrists on repeat.
The same action on repeat.
Repeat.

According to a quick google search,
It takes the average adult 7 full minutes to die by suffocation,
Meaning that by the time my mom got home,
I could’ve died at least 30 times over.
I’ll have to sit down and try it tonight,
I’ll have to strangle myself out tonight.

No one will actually care.

My love,

I fell in love with you when I was young.
I remember that you first came to me when I held a hunting knife in my hand,
In front of a 3 ½ by 4 foot mirror.
You found me in the blood that stained my arms.
You came to me, initially, in sets of three.
I was eleven when you came to me.

It was December, I remember, when people found out I loved you.
My cousin asked about the red marks you leave on my arms,
I yanked my sleeve up in fear and responded “It’s just the cat.”
I never wanted to admit I had fallen in love with the most terrifying thing I could imagine.

The kids at school found out about you around this time-
I’d left my hoodie at home, and I couldn’t wear a coat to classes.
Everyone saw your aftermath.
I am surprised the counselor did not call me in to talk about you.

My love,

You had my aunt so angry with me she started to abuse me,
I remember her screaming at me getting worse every time she found out I had relapsed-
How she got more irritable.
I know that in the beginning she meant well-
But eventually, she just started trying to permanently hospitalize me.

You made her believe I was a freak, darling.

My love,

You found me in more ways as the years went on,
You started to mess with my body image and force down my food intake,
And then you forced my teeth to find my leg in a hospital bathroom
because I couldn’t take you back to your roots
Those roots where I held a four inch blade in my hand in a tiny bathroom
In front of the widest bathroom mirror I had ever seen,
Next to a towel clad window-

You eventually made me bruise myself to the point where I had dark brown splotches over my thighs for two and a half weeks.

My love,
I have loved you for five years this coming October.
It’s odd, thinking we’ve been together this long.
I still remember, vaguely, what we looked like together that first time-
I still see your ghost on my arms.

It’s been a month since the last time I’ve talked to you fully,
I’m not counting the days you whisper in my ears and I pull at my hair, you see,
But I can still see the last time we talked.
It’s the pink little mark down the center of my wrist that reminds me we were ever lovers,
And I’m terrified I’m coming back to you worse than ever.

My love,

You scare me.
I mean it. You genuinely scare me,
Because you make me feel so much better for a few hours until I realize I have to get undressed in front of people,
Because I don’t just have a room to myself anymore.

I have been found out about loving you seven times this last year alone from adults.
But I got smarter than most people.
I hide them in better places,
Scar up my hip bones and hiss whenever I move the wrong way
Or have to peel my clothes from the little marks you leave.

My love,

I love you.
I hate what you do but I love you.
I love that you make me feel better for a few minutes,
But I hate when everything goes downhill five minutes later.

I love you.
I’m sorry.