Apr 2013
Weddings' always made me sad, but only for myself; this one made me sad for everyone else in the room, including the bride. Actually, especially the bride.
I crawled slowly into my closet, pushing piles of shoes out of the way. I let myself cry; something I had not done in weeks. My tears grew into sobs and my sobs grew into screams so violent I shoved the sleeve of one of my sweatshirts into my mouth to stifle them.
The thought of getting drunk sounded so delicious, I figured I could down a whole case of beer before I remembered I didn't like the taste.
I started blankly at the photo taped to my wall. I held back tears and tried not to remember that the boy in the picture, the one I had my arms wrapped around, was nothing but a stranger to me anymore. I had long ago stopped counting the days he had been gone, because I never knew what I was counting to. 8 years later, he's still gone, and the hope of his return is little.
The little cut on my wrist stung, though the knife had barely broken the skin.
Four minutes and five seconds into Stairway To Heaven, I realized my fingernails had been clawing at my lips. I ****** the blood off my fingers and sang along quietly.
"When she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed . ."
All the days of rain had transformed the fallen leaves into piles the consistency of burgundy oatmeal. Despite its sludgy facade, the **** left stains on the pavement as violent as blood.
I would regret it tomorrow, but I stayed up as late as I could, praying I would sink into one of the many shadows in my room and never feel anything again.
Even though I could feel the ink sinking into my vessels, I continued to write on my skin. It may give me cancer one day but I couldn't resist; the secret Sharpie messages on my arms and hands made me feel like art.
I was numb. I felt like my entire body was asleep, a dull tingly feelings spreading from the ***** of my feet to the crown of my head. The only places I felt anything were the sore spots on my chest that I'd jabbed the end of my pencil into.
It was almost like I was too tired to sleep. Knowing that I would just wake up again made it pointless. So I stayed watching TV in a dark room and nervously eyeing the the flickering shadows the TV made.
I crawled slowly into my closet, pushing piles of shoes out of the way. I let myself cry; something I had not done in weeks. My tears grew into sobs and my sobs grew into screams so violent I shoved the sleeve of one of my sweatshirts into my mouth to stifle them.
The thought of getting drunk sounded so delicious, I figured I could down a whole case of beer before I remembered I didn't like the taste.
I started blankly at the photo taped to my wall. I held back tears and tried not to remember that the boy in the picture, the one I had my arms wrapped around, was nothing but a stranger to me anymore. I had long ago stopped counting the days he had been gone, because I never knew what I was counting to. 8 years later, he's still gone, and the hope of his return is little.
The little cut on my wrist stung, though the knife had barely broken the skin.
Four minutes and five seconds into Stairway To Heaven, I realized my fingernails had been clawing at my lips. I ****** the blood off my fingers and sang along quietly.
"When she gets there, she knows, if the stores are all closed . ."
All the days of rain had transformed the fallen leaves into piles the consistency of burgundy oatmeal. Despite its sludgy facade, the **** left stains on the pavement as violent as blood.
I would regret it tomorrow, but I stayed up as late as I could, praying I would sink into one of the many shadows in my room and never feel anything again.
Even though I could feel the ink sinking into my vessels, I continued to write on my skin. It may give me cancer one day but I couldn't resist; the secret Sharpie messages on my arms and hands made me feel like art.
I was numb. I felt like my entire body was asleep, a dull tingly feelings spreading from the ***** of my feet to the crown of my head. The only places I felt anything were the sore spots on my chest that I'd jabbed the end of my pencil into.
It was almost like I was too tired to sleep. Knowing that I would just wake up again made it pointless. So I stayed watching TV in a dark room and nervously eyeing the the flickering shadows the TV made.
Seriously thinking about writing a novel. Not totally sure about what yet, not totally sure if I'm capable of it anyway. Welcoming all encouraging thoughts.
