I’m like the wallpaper on somebody’s walls,
no one would even notice if I was being torn or ripped apart.
Until it starts to take over my attitude
my behaviour
my mood
Yet they see it like a tradition.
a sort of thing that happens once it’s ‘old’ enough, once I become a teenager.

But I’m breaking,
yet it’s masked by a genius at illusions,
just like the magicians that keep you guessing.

It feels wrong
It feels good at the same time
No one would ever know
What’s running through my head all day

'Without you, it’s a better world
You don’t deserve to live
You’ll treat everyone how you treated them, treated her
You don’t deserve anyone
Just end it all.’

I feel as though I am sinking deeper
Deeper into the suffocating, tethering, terrifying black pool of submerging water
My throat is burning with pain
with the sudden rush of molten rock filling my interior body
I. CAN’T. BREATHE.

My wrists are covered with lines of blood red, venomous violet

IT'S ME, I'M THE PROBLEM.

I need to stop.
I know that.
But I can’t.
It feels like a moment of relief
Yet followed by years of torture and guilt
The same thing done over and over again
Until the already fragile layer of skin becomes increasingly more difficult to heal
To return to the start
To how it was
Like how it would be if you left your train station
and drove further and further away,
turning down each stop you encounter upon
just because you were too tired to get off

Soon, I started forgetting
Forgetting everything
Every. Single. Thing.
It’s better than remembering.
I would tell myself.
But I knew
I knew deep down this wasn’t right.
I couldn’t remember the meal I just ate
The subjects I studied yesterday
The assignments I had already completed
It was blurred away in a foggy mist
And no matter how hard I had tried
I couldn’t remember.
To the point where I couldn’t remember the last time I felt real
Truly happy
The times when I didn’t have this lingering, empty, drowning feeling
Buried hard inside me

It is now a part of me
Permanently.
A bullet shot into my skull
Wrecking. Me.

I’m sorry.
I can’t do enough
I will never be able to
It’s never ever enough
For me
For anyone else
That’s why it’s always me in the end
Standing
Staring at the crash
alone.

Looking down.
At my arms and hands
I see
Burns. Wounds. Blood.

Desperately,
I rub my wrists
Furiously
Hoping the damage will go away
The streaks of awful-looking colour.