Tis The Faerie
I'm drowning my sorrows in the warmth of the cigarettes
and weed. Their smoke filling my lungs... I know that it
is killing me, but I also know that right now, I don't have
the courage to kill myself any other way. The razors have
made my forearms so tender that even the thought of cutting
myself hurts. So I let myself die slowly. So slowly. I
want to get it over with. I know that we have so many
antidepressants and other pills in the house. I've thought
about it many, many times, but what if I decide that I made
a mistake? I'd do what I always do. I would not say
anything. But no. That would not be the way that I would
do it. I would slit my wrists. The rapture of the blade,
glistening in the light, drawing-- bringing forth-- the
adrenaline rush as that beautiful red liquid springs forth.
Then, the loving arms of the warm water calls out to more
blood, and soon the water is completely red, and I have a
pale, pallid complexion. Soon the confining body is no
longer me, simply an empty carrying case, and I am gone.
Now, only now am I at peace with the world.