no longer the monster under the bed)
She wonders when exactly they'd left the dwelling of her bedroom walls, haunting her every step as she forces a multitude of expressions on her face to distract others from the shadows pooling beneath her easy smile.
emotion beyond comprehension)
She watches the water bubble beneath the surface with panic; she isn't sure when the last time her fingertips had felt warmer than negative degrees anymore.
just another lie)
She stares, fascinated, at the skin that grows tauter on her face each day, the hollows beneath her cheeks, the ribs splayed against her bare torso, the unsteady waver in her eyes, and she wonders if she should find them disgusting—she doesn't think she does.
She covers her ears as someone screams at the sight of her and she grips even tighter when she realizes the sound is coming from herself.
to die or to be killed)
She forces death down her throat as her future veers toward the only path she never wanted and the only choice left to her now.
the sound of nails on chalkboards)
She wakes to a knock on her door and blood beneath fingers that tremble as she turns the **** to peek around at the landlady telling her she'd gotten another complaint of the scraping sounds coming from her room at midnight.
She's learned to do things quietly now so she doesn't disturb her neighbors or her colleagues or her family; she isn't sure why they aren't bothered by her demons, though.
again and again and again and againandagainandagainandagain)
She can barely count nowadays how many times she's thought of and tried and came so very close before (oh, but she could if she tried; each attempt is very memorable, of course), and she rubs her hands raw on the coarse rope over and over again—maybe, just maybe, this time she'll do it.
Maybe this time she'll take the easy way out after all.
I'd like to clear up that I'm not suicidal, not anymore. I just felt like writing something that points out that maybe, to some people, death might be the lesser evil after all.