pried veins. gutted thighs. slashed wrists.
dull blades, first-aid kits, and little droplets
of blood.
burnt fingertips. piercing eyes. racing heart.
the cheap alcohol you pour down your throat at night to numb the pain burns like the intensity of a thousand white suns,
as the sounds of lies and sweet nothings pour into your ears, down the back of your neck causing the tiny hairs to stand on edge, and trickles down your spine.
slit wrists and bubble baths by the candle light.
sinking in further and further
until the lukewarm water creeps out from the edges of the tub. still, the sweet nothings whisper.
prescription pills and suicide notes, tear stained pillow cases.
the bed you once ran to for comfort, soon feels like sandpaper. scraping away at the innocent layers you built to keep others out.
and yet you continue to build.
why? why do you add these layers to yourself?
why are you so afraid of being vulnerable? of opening up? of revealing your true self to the world?
you hide your inner self like you hide your undergarments.
the dark, lace underwear you put on under your dark baggy clothes exemplifies the intricate depths of your desire to be "normal",
and the intricate wonders of the mind.