It's midnight.
Outside, people are singing a birthday song for one of my neighbours.
Inside, I have been taking an ice cold shower for over an hour because it's just as painful as cutting open my skin when I turn the water scalding hot every fifteen minutes, but it doesn't leave any scars.
My phone died. The shrink was trying to talk me out of it and into my own bed, promised he wouldn't leave, wouldn't leave me alone, not him, not this time. He said he would help me through it. I believed him. Still do. I guess I'll find out if that's stupid. Later. When he leaves.
Skin was just talking. She's good at that. She's always been good at that. The way her words wrap around everything bad in my head and suffocate it makes me want to curl up and sleep everything off.
Lumberjack just... just was. I don't know how he knew. He just did. Sometimes I wish I could talk to him.
But there's a reason I pray cold showers will mimic the rain and wash everything away. There's a reason for every faint line on my legs, my arms, my stomach.
I say: Crying is for the weak.
Shrink says: Crying is for those who deal. It's for people who've been strong.
I deal in my own way. It's the only way that seems to work. The only way I can think of. Nothing soothes better than red drops and raindrops.
I should crawl into bed. I should never come out again. I should die here, on the bathroom floor, surrounded by tiles and soap and cold water. I should die somewhere else, somewhere safe, somewhere private. I should seek out an empty spot and slit my wrists. How do you slit your second wrist, anyway? I read that most people pass out before they can make the most damaging cut.
No. I should crawl into bed. There's no reason for thirteen. There's no reason for blood, or death, or my mother crying. There's no reason for flowers or funerals or picking out your best suit.
It's 1AM. I'm still in the shower.
