Sometimes I feel like I’m drowning, gasping, grasping for your hand. You’re shoving me under. Crushing my lungs as they fill with water. Flooding. Tears make black scars on my cheeks. They burn like acid. “Save me” I cry, but only choke. But I convince myself not to cry. I’m alright. “She’s okay.” I hear whispers all around me. It’s so dark and lonely. Be strong and they will see. Screams in the night. And you’ve pleaded with them before, told them you were dying inside. “You’ll be fine.” Years pass by and I’m still bleeding, feeling. My soul aches for protection, proof that there is still something to live for. That something inside of me is still lovable. Once the damage is done, I’m stuck in my own thoughts, going crazy, haunted by demons that ignite little sparks in my life only to pour gasoline to burn me at the stake. “Witch!” they cry, “Damn the witch!” But my eyes fill with tears of confusion. I thought I did everything right? Yet still I was being murdered by faces in a crowd I had never thought to see. My heart falls out of my chest, thumps on the ground. Once, twice. “Kill it!” Stomping the blood. I kneel to the ground, lift the lifeless thing in my hands but quickly it dribbles down my arms. “You monsters!” I cried out. A roar erupts from my stomach and it mauls me inside like a lion. He scratches so, and he emerges from out of me, no matter how hard I try to keep him in his cage. The vomit is nothingness, food has no appetite for me. They condemn me. Though they don’t understand, they punish me with whips and hooks and tear my flesh to shreds. “You don’t understand!” I scream! Trying to not let the tears flood. Can’t they see I am dying? Or am I just as invisible to the authority eye. I get urges to make myself bleed, with sharp, shiny, objects. But have none. Would they care then?! IF my heart was hung by carefully knotted ropes and not a breath escapes from my lungs. My soul would scream, “Isn’t this what you wanted from me?” from the rafters, even more of a ghost than I once was. But still they wouldn’t see. None would attend my funeral. Only I. There would be a label on my back reading: ‘Selfish people lie on this side.” And my broken heart would cry out, “Broken. Broken. I am not the one who is selfish. You did this to me!” “Us?” They chuckle, rolling with laughter. “Us?!” Stab me once again. I am alone. Maybe not in my thoughts, but in this cruel and heartless world.
“Save me.” I whimper. But they just walk away. Chains with heavy metal strapped to my back, pinning me down. “Come back!” I’m fine, really.” I try to see out of my swollen eyes. “I don’t care if you hurt me.” A gun to my temple. He’s towering above me. My scars on my wrists burn, they show bright. Moving the gun to my heart, the trigger clicks. I gasp my final breath. “But I loved you.” Was that not enough? How can I, such a lowly fitted girl, so broken and battered, love? He walks away. The world fades to black, but the blood glows behind my eyes. Sticky. Time ticks slowly, as I wake to see the light of a television. It mumbles. Thinking of nothing. Bleeding. Gasping. Concrete lies on my chest. “Love!” “Love!” I turn with blurry eyes. “How could you do this to me?!” no words evacuate. “Love what have I done?!” Shrugging, tears pour in puddles. He holds me in his arms. Water falls from his eyes, and he tries to cover it. “Let me see...” I whisper. “I want to see what I mean to you.” He made me feel again. I lost everything. I had nothing. Of course I didn’t, I gave it all away. He put his hand in my blood, he looked in horror. It covered his hands, as his eyes grew wide. “Did I deserve this?” I weakly ask. No answer. Did I ever have his attention, had I ever known him? The way he would stare, longing to be his to hold. Slowly I got sicker. Started dying a little more every day, as I slowly faded away. “Is this how it ends?” I wonder. I try to take the knives out, but they stick. I tried to change the bandages every day, but the chains made it too hard. “Baby,” I try. “Baby, are you still there?” Silence. “I didn’t mean it!” I cry. “I really do need you!” I was alone now. Visitors would pass by every once in a while, but they couldn’t see the chains, the blood, the scars. The pills in my hand. “I want to die!” I screech. Nobody hears. Because I am okay. I am fine. Then the second bullet comes, but this time, to my temple. “Maybe this is for the best,” he said… and maybe it was.