With the conviction of a grieving fourteen year old, I cut a thick **** deep into my vein & watched the blue beneath my skin melt into a red stream that trickled through my fingers. I didn't cut in rows, for safety. I cut in columns. I watched the gray walls that encased me fall into a dusty mass beneath my feet. I watched all of the chaos that spiraled around me grow smaller and smaller until it was nothing but a dime sized glisten before me. I heard everything fall eerily silent like the serenity of a funeral we all knew was coming; the end to a suffering. The kind of ending that makes our bones ache but lifts our hearts in a sea of  some twisted hope that we feel guilty for feeling but are still comforted by. A silence unpentrible by the anxious sirens of an ambulance headed toward my house or the hurried footsteps of my sister's cheap moccasin's headed toward my bedroom door.

That was the first time, I felt terrifed of my own hands; this sense of genuine suspense for what I'd do next as if I wasn't the one in charge of where my limbs went. The first time I ever felt that evil love for hating myself; that desire to press down harder; to clip the vein where it starts; to let myself pour out like a barrel of salt water; to become dry skin over still bones... That was the first time, I made an honest attempt to fight myself off of my own frame. The first time I ever wished I'd slept through every hour of my life up until this point just so that I'd have nothing to think about.

Well, four years later, I'm just so glad I made it out because the happiness that has grown over my skull is enough to make me cry and I don't even know that little girl who so desperately wanted to die.