Psychic Heartblood

I want to scream, but words fail me. Nothing can express the anguish raging through my being right now. I see the flash of silver when I close my eyes, can feel my blood leave my body in raging torrents. I scent rivers of blood with every agonizing breath. J will not save me this time. I pushed him away, and this time I know he will never come back. He never did keep his promise. When I lost my sight last year, he was the first person I turned to. It didn't matter that I eventually regained my vision. He wasn't there, despite his promise to be. When I was hospitalised, he wasn't there either. Meaningless words fly past me; I can imagine the bloody rivers slowly turning transparent; blood to tears. I am fighting back an emotion that I never thought would surface again in me; bloodlust makes me dizzy. I must...I must pour out all my pain through this blog, this extension of me that I never realised was the only outlet for all my unspoken emotions; things I never can say. I never will say. A desperate attempt to gouge out the pain razoring through me. Razors. Sweet relief is just a few steps away. My heart constricts at the thought, at the potential humiliation I know I will face. I am 15 all over again. Refusing to talk to anyone, attached only to my piano, the sole instrument that could give my pain a voice, some tiny way to express the burden I carried. My mind flits back to the times I would stare at the darkened landscape as night unfolded, my first trysts with death and the morning after. The many cats that surrounded me with warmth, when I ran hard and fast from the blood I'd drawn. The many nights that I spent watching normal people slumber, not at peace, maybe, but secure in the knowledge that they were loved. I have often imagined what it would be like if I was someone else, just for a day. It has been a habit since I was younger. I would watch as grandchildren hugged their grandparents, and back then I had no defences. My eyes were alive with emotion, and now I realise all the strangers who stopped to talk to me, to touch me, saw my pain. Growing up has been a bitch, but at least I've learned to cloak my eyes and self with illusions, ones that fool everyone I push away. How did my life get so twisted? My breath catches in my throat as I feel the silvered edge press against my wrist. The blood trickles down, a light drizzle at first. Speckling the floor with crimson petals, flowers of life and death blooming all around me, soaking my clothes. White. Always wear white. It shows off the colours in stark contrast, reminds one of the beauty that supposedly runs through our veins. The drops sparkle under the light, and I'm taken back to my first time. Her death haunted me; I could not sleep. This eased the pain, and when I first slept after such a long time, I thought I felt a tiny flicker of peace. There. Now you know why I hate having my veins touched by anyone else. The power to hurt should only belong to the one who will be hurt. No one else. J, I'm so so sorry I can't give you what you want. I'm only me, and if these red drops that fall thickly from my arms represent love, then I am trying my hardest to stop loving you. I'm slightly sticky now, and I can't differentiate between the blood and the tears now. I must look quite a sight. I crave the sharp edges, I need it in a way that is almost primal. Some deep urge to claw myself bloody to rid myself of pain that has haunted me for most of my life. A part of my mind wonders if this will be my last post. I will have to clean myself up, if I wake up later. I must contain my emotion until I'm done talking to KS. I feel so inadequate all of a sudden. The clock ticks on heartlessly, reminding me that each second is one second closer to sweet oblivioin. Extreme blood loss will evetually lead to loss of consciousness. Maybe this should be my weapon against insomnia. THe trusty razor. It's getting harder to breathe. I think I'll go lie down and watch the crimson puddles grow larger. I'M growing numb inside. How fitting. That's the song I'm currently obsessed with. Maybe I'll sit here and tinkle on the ivories, adding a splash of red to the black and white keys. After all, extreme emotion drives passion which in turn inspires greatness. I felt my heart skip a beat. I lay me down to sleep at 6 tonight, and as I lie on the cold ground, I know this time there will be no warmth if I do wake up, only unspoken recrimnations and harsh words. Theylll try to keep me caged this time. I do not care. One blessed release, and then I will be as empty as I used to be.