I start. I stop.

I start again. I stop again.

I write, I erase, I rewrite, I stop again.

I sit and stare, I shake my head, I hide my eyes.

You do not come here for glitter and fun, or flowers and sun; you do not squint from the shine. I am broken and torn; I am a handful of jagged shards, to be handled gently just long enough to be dropped in the closest trash can. I have promised you the truth and that isn’t pretty or magical. I’ve laid bare the surface of my scars; I’ve told the tales and felt the sting, I’ve shown you the scared little girl at the center of my shallow stare and fragile little ego, but now, now what I have become forces me to look away, to slither away into a dark little corner and shield my eyes from the light of the truth.

I can no longer convince myself that there will ever be a better day; I have spent endless hours lying in the darkness wondering how to have myself committed. I lie there thinking that maybe if I went to a hospital, and they saw the real me, that maybe I could be fixed. Maybe they could piece some part of me back together, maybe even enough to get me to want to live again.

All I know for sure is I can’t make myself want to pretend anymore, I sit here fighting the urge to wretch with plump little tears scarring my cheeks pondering the point of it all. How much am I meant to bear before I am granted the sweet release? Is it really selfish to say I wish for death, or is it selfish to witness my struggle and expect one more  breath? When I list the reasons to keep fighting they all have birthdays, and names; they all smile and cry, walk and talk, love and laugh, but my name isn’t on that list. I don’t want to fight anymore; I don’t want to lose anymore.

I have lived with those names close at hand for some time now, but as time works its way into my bones and carves its initials onto my face it gets harder to keep from seeing these names as a reason to continue  and not as a reason to not. This is survival of the fittest and I am slowing the herd. I have long thought that maybe a quick flick of the wrist and a slight sting would be easier than having to drag myself into a smile, to sit calmly as my blood runs dry would be infinitely less distressing than to wake up behind these eyes again tomorrow.

You will find no apology here, no words to ease your feelings about my desires, this isn’t about you. This is a day in the life; this is where I live, and why I can’t anymore.


This is why I sit and I stare, why I shake my head, why I hide my eyes.

I will write, I will erase, I will stop.

I will start again. I will stop again.

I started and now I'll stop.