Monday, January 31, 2005

Diary of Self-Destruction part 2

Stumbling out of bed, he shuffles across the carpet until he feels the cold linoleum under his feet. Glancing up at the mirror, he hears something, a voice.

"Well well well,"

Double checking the face looking back at him, he makes sure.

His lips aren't moving.

"well don't you look like shit today, again."

Turning away he pushes aside the clear plastic shower curtain and reaches for the faucet handle.

"Just look at yourself, those scars on your wrist, bags under your eyes. Long night huh?"

Lowering his eyes, he sees the inside of his wrist, covered with red lines. Dark clotted drops of blood still clinging to some of them.

"Your so pathetic with your little episodes. Cutting yourself until you bleed as much as you cry. You cry like you did when you were a child."

He remembered how he hated her voice, how he cowered away, looking up, with salty eyes at the one who gave birth. Gave birth to a failure. He was carried in her womb, fed, and nurtured by her. But she now screamed in his ears.

Perhaps she didn't know what she was doing. Maybe she hated him. Maybe she never wanted him. He didn't know.

"She wanted you to succeed in life."

But how does yelling help anybody succeed in anything? Is it worth it to achieve greatness and be empty inside?

Over time, he developed a hatred for people, family, and himself. His whole life revolved around hate and self-loathing, all those years were kept inside.

They never knew. She never knew.

They will never know now.

He opens the medicine cabinet. Reaches for a bottle of pills. The bottle is opened. Pill taken. Then another. More and more. He is choking them down. Grasps for another bottle, pops the lid. Groping for another, another. Taking bottles out, pushing pills in. Choking, swallowing, gasping. More bottles, more pills, anything. More more more.

Then, he stops. Bottles strewn across the counter, in the sink, on the floor. Pills, tablets and capsules a mess around him.

The room starts spinning. His eyes are wide open, darting back and forth. He's cold. Shivering, shaking, with a shudder he falls to his knees. He's hot, burning, sweating. His heart is pounding against his chest, it hurts. Blood rushing through his veins. Pushing pounding rushing. Feels like he's going to burst. Closing his eyes. Slumps to the floor. Face pressed against the bathroom floor, to be found days later by the landlord or someone, still in his boxers under the yellow-orange glow of the bathroom lights.

Friday, January 28, 2005

The Noose

Hanging on to life by a thread
This string
This noose
Around my neck
Each day is another gasp for breath
Swinging by my neck
Writhing in pain
Searching for a way out
Out of agony
Away from the torment
To be rid of the pain

Myself, the Murderer

Hands around my neck
I turn
But no one is there
The hands gripping are my own
Tighter and tighter
Fingers are digging into the flesh
Teeth clenched
Eyes squeezed shut
I wage this war against myself
I tell myself
"I would blow a hole in my skull for you
if only it would make you feel better"
Myself tells me
"Take this rope
it will only hurt for a second"

Tuesday, January 11, 2005

Solutions

I need an addiction
Something to hide behind
Something to help me forget
Something to mess me up
No matter how many times I wish I was someone else
Or how many lines are on my wrist
No matter how man guns I've drooled over
Or how many pills I have in my bathroom
I can't turn back the sand in the hourglass
It wont matter
All the people that know me will die too
I will be alone in the ground

3 AM

Sitting here
Confused, dazed
The stench of broken hearts fills the air
Smoke curls from the lips silently
Twisting, ever changing, disperses upward into the ceiling
I watch myself talking to you
But you are never here
Cigarettes smothering in the ashtray
A heart can be broken only a few times before the soul begins to
deteriorate
I love you for all the ways you kill me
The longer I lay here
I realize more that my life is ending
I'm always closer to death than I was a second ago
Its always too late for something
Among the crumpled pieces of paper
I think of all the ways I hate myself
I think of what it would feel like to be perfect
Or at least, a little closer to perfect
But its always too late
Razor blades strewn across the coffee table like broken promises
All those fake laughs, fake smiles
Coming back to haunt
The list of thinks I've messed up
Is a book compared to the things I've done right
Always in my head
Like blood on the walls
I could never manage to wash it off