I have torn at my hair a little more than I should in the past hour, desperately attempting to pluck each thought from my head. My braids are in a bundled mess.
I winced in pain when my hand successfully yanked out a loose braid, ripping out a chunk of my hair along with it. At least, I got something right.
My mind constantly runs ahead of me and I feel powerless to stop it. It wages war against my soul and losing seems like the only option available to me. And these knives on my bed? I need them and they need me.
I have not stepped out in months. My soul, I mean. My soul has not stepped out in months. My outsides? Perfect.
I often wonder what the other side of life looks like. Today I want to find out.
I know I’m crazy. I mean, who wants to die so much that they are already dead on the inside?
“Lunatic” is what Law calls me.
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.