8 months clean, relapsing would be collapsing.  

A locked bathroom door, the voices yelling - no, screaming.
I hear my mother running up the stairs, the pounding of her footsteps mimics the pounding inside my head, it's war.

I can feel blood dripping down onto the rest of my body.
The tears stream down my face as I try to let my head create a feeling of melancholy

There's sirens outside now, I know they're for me. You can see the neon purple lights from the window. I'm just waiting, waiting for death to set me free.

On the stretcher with gauze covering up the masterpiece I made to what use to be pristine skin, I close my eyes, reminding myself to stay awake. my hope stretching thin.

The voices of my neighbors, overcome the sounds of mom's sobs. I wish my own mind didn't lock me chambers.