tw self harm
With alcohol on her breath
In her veins
In her mind
She opens the drawer
She pulls out the knife
It’s familiar
The weight
The cold steel
The corners of her mouth turning up
A sick, desperate grin
The room spins as she shifts
To better reach her wrist
“I’m not okay”
Echoes over and over in her head
Deafening noise
If the alcohol won’t drown it out
The blood will.
A sort of fantasy I’d like to hope will not occur, but I’m nearly certain will.