trigger warning: blood, medical imagery
put on your mask, and your surgical gown. because it’s tuesday morning, and we know what that means, don’t we now?
time to line up the dirty kitchen knives on the breakfast table, as the birds chirp. sneak a look at your reflection in the foggy metal….
now make the incision at the top of my forehead. quick, and smooth. take notes, as a sickening, relentless guilt starts to bloom. hack off every wrapping-paper petal.
and as my blood dribbles onto the floor, make a quick run down to the dollar store. come back with a cheap, plastic tomb, and a screaming kettle.
go on. because if you really don’t care, why can’t you just leave me there, in the operating room? unplug the heart-rate monitor. disconnect the iv tube…
and close the door, with a furious, thundering boom.
I have cut myself open so many times, it’s practically second nature. I guess it’s just hard to draw the line between self-awareness and introspection and relentless self-criticism for me.
I will see myself through others’ eyes, draw up sketches in my mind of what a weak/awful/pointless person they must think me to be. I don’t know if they’re accurate, but I’ve lived most of my life in third person–and it’s worked out pretty well so far, hasn’t it?
I will analyze every little thing I do, and tear it apart. Tell myself I’m meaningless and awful and I don’t deserve love, over something as little as forgetting to do the dishes. I will squirm in my sticky, plastic skin, shrink-wrapping me in place, wishing I could just get out, get away. But I can’t, obviously.
I will lie awake for hours at night, thinking about every bad thing I’ve ever done, all my mistakes, and all the moral grey-areas I’ve danced upon. And god it’s exhausting, to be so tangled up in my fucking mind that I can’t have so much as one happy moment.
To be honest, though, I don’t know how to stop doing it. Don’t know who I even am without it. I don’t know, it’s really confusing.
Lots of love,