my brain is quite a place.
it feels less like a headspace and more like a deadspace, a place i never want to go and never want to be but constantly i am stuck.
it starts out quiet
it starts as a whisper from me to myself, the me i never want to be but always have to see in the sea of the eyes in the mirror that i refuse to believe are me.
it starts as a whisper on the good days, when the tide is low and the waters of my thoughts are calm, and tame, and sweet and cool and loved and known and then
it gets louder, and louder, the whisper feels like whiskers made of metal spikes brushimg against my face with no break, it's sandpaper behind my eyes inside this monster i've become, an itch i cannot scratch and a bitch i wish to attack but it's myself.
..... so?
it gets louder and the waves get higher and crash against my skull and the pulse, the pulse, the pulse, the rhythm of the ringing in my ears, the beating of my heart within my skull and the heavy emptiness and the pulse, the pulse, the pulse of the heart i do not own, it's louder and louder and i am deafened by this noise, i'm stuck inside this torture every second every day and there is no way to break the chains i've latched around my wrist and so i-
scratch.
and it all goes quiet, the script the gods have written for this side character i've become is washed away with the inexistent waves that cannot beat aside the shore of my brain, i've found the off switch and that off switch is the pain. the pain i wish i didn't want to force myself to bear, the brain i wish i wasn't born in to despair, but it all gets washed away as the sea of thought is replaced by a red line fixed on my eyes.
they say no one can take it all, but my wrists can.
i cannot, will not, force these thoughts that i have drowned in, the thoughts that toom my breath from my chest and squeezed my ribs into dust, i will not force this upon a person unless that person is myself, instead i'll put it all on my wrists.
my wrists, my wrists, my poor little wrists, the beautifully plain little wrists where i can see every vein and yet no scar, it's blended in with my skin and i've gotten so good at hiding, especially when nobody is there to find.
so i'll put it all on my wrists, my wrists, my scratched and bloody wrists, my red and scarred and scabbing scratched up scathing little wrists.
this is my pen to paper, i can draw something so horrifically and disgustingly beautiful to please my eyes no matter how ugly it tarnishes my body and soul, if it makes my mind go quiet i am fine.
so i'll take it out on my wrists, my wrists, my horror movie wrists, my barcode coded red line coated, covered little wrists
i'll be fine if this metal is mine to hold, conceal, and scratch, i'll be okay even if every day the ocean gets too loud for me to deal, ill take it out on my wrists and find a way to conceal the terrors i've bestowed upon my own body.
i am so tired of tiring my body but my head is exhausted, i am exhausted, i am sick of dealing with this constant seasick storm my thoughts have decided to bubble and boil like a potion for liquid misery.
the blood i bleed is the antidote to the poison of myself, empty is a much preferred alternative to the noise inside my brain, the static, the static, i cannot stand it so i'll take it out on my wrists.