I have two knives on my bed.
One to carefully and precisely carve out the deep-seated, soul-shattering pain I feel in my heaving chest; and the other, well, for emotional support while I slowly carve.
In the past hour, I have caressed my left palm with the tip of each of the knives’ shiny blades at least twenty times, daring the unthinkable. It is amazing what comfort each knife brings to my spirit.
The knives stare at me invitingly from the comfort of my soft grey duvet. The air conditioner whirs gently in the distance but I hear them clearly. I hear them gently calling out to me and reminding me of the heights of ecstasy they have promised. I hear them promising me so much, I am certain that undoing what I have started is impossible. Most importantly, I hear them promising me silence.
Crazy. Mad. Lunatic. Idiot. Crazy. Out of Control. Restless. Chaotic. Lunatic.