She took the first shot, finally.
It was probably a good idea to eat her food now, with the alcohol.
But she wanted to be sick, as sick as her chest felt.
She wanted to run her bath in the dark and die.
Just zone out peacefully until it was late enough to sleep.
Red plays on her mind as much as she wishes it was on her wrist.
She saw a woman jogging on the way home, can hear men jogging by her window now.
Bounce pain bounce pain pressure pain
Weight.
Tears.
Hatred, self hatred.
Under her self made galaxy she cries, alone over money, work, paperwork, bills, pain, breasts, retention, hopelessness.
Utterly helpless.
Moving like a broken shell in the ocean.
Stars saving her, cats keeping her alive as she grieves.
For her dreams, her life.
For her self.
She can see the staggering loss in hindsight; first the jerk that started the descent, then the fake happy; coasting along on a breeze, carried by the needs and desires of those around her.
Then the second drop.
Lies, misogynists and perpetual victims.
'Peacekeepers' who didn't help keep the peace.
Blame games and cold shoulders.
Surgery and weddings.
Exaggerations and secrets.
Secret stitches, secret songs, secret disordered voices.
They're returning in her loneliness and she's struggling to fight after the 6th anniversary of the beginning.
She feels played by authorities meant to be helping her.
Played and manipulated, but instead of speaking up she remains silent.
Again.
Digging her own grave.
Slow death.
That is what awaits.
Happiness is eluding her grasp, teasing her fingertips as she reaches.
Pain yanks her arms back and she holds herself in the darkness.
Dreams of red line her skin every hour; awake and the rare sleep that comes with the help of strong medications.
She's not alone, she has support and she uses it; but it doesnt change reality.
Nothing does but time, time she cannot fast forward.
Stab slice stab slice.
Images of a sharp knife slicing long and deep, the reality of a tiny men's razor blade.
Female vocals littering the house from its center.
Her own voice is unusually absent as she waits for the rocking, the distance that the shots bring.
Grateful that these are the only shots she has access to, scared of the one time she held a tiny pistol.
Heavy in her hand, like grief in the soul.
Cold and silver, her favourite coloured metal.
Silver and rust.

She goes to the kitchen, slippers dragging on the floorboards, waiting for it to be dark enough for her vacation from herself.
The bath, a bomb, female words and starlight.
No daylight, its too cruel to her heart.
It messes with her head.

There'll be no real dinner tonight.
She needs to regain food control, body control.
If she loses weight she might be able to fit a bra again before surgery.
Surgery.
Cosmetic as much as medical.
Two giant balloons filled with water.
Wobbling and rippling on her small frame, the cage not even a size 8 at her last heaviest weight.
Almost 10kg ago.
Still only an 8.
Years as a teen spent in 10-12 because she didn't know better.
She knows now.
Ellie goulding is singing about being dead in the water.
The ice is thin between herself and her grief.
Finances make it overwhelming, not even having money to buy human groceries.
Cat food on special, her cats her lifelines; saving her skin countless times, licking tears and nuzzling comfort.
Everybody knows how much they mean so they have never once even hinted at her giving any away.
Instead they'd buy litter or food for them.
Their love adding to the desperate reasons she holds on.

The next shot is a bad idea, the green liquid only helps the tears fall, but she is sore and lonely and tired and broke only 1 days after pay day.
Not even all her bills got money this pay.
Gone are the days when she could shop without checking to make sure she had the money in her account.
Here are the days when items get returned to shelves or slipped into bags and pockets because of the dangerously low income.
She's trying, always trying.
Giving up doesn't sit in her head, heart or body.
She tried twice.
She dreams of trying again, but knows she couldn't do it to those who support her.
Fearing the loss of friends she has already imagined the grief that suicide would bring dear ones.
'I tried to help.'
'How did i miss it?'
'Why didn't they tell me?'
'I would have driven over in the middle of the night.'
'I would have been with her.'

She wants to be remembered as a fighter, someone who fought for herself, her dreams and her friends.
So many dreams already reality before the floor came out from underfoot.
First music, then writing, foreign language, photography, self discovery, dreams reset, university, self confidence, self awarenes and even self love...

That love is behind a veil now, trying to reach out but being met with cold shoulders, pained shoulders.
She's pretending she is high as emma louise flows from the bathroom.
She lays back and imagines the room spinning above her.
The galaxy turns into a nebula, she smiles as tears sting the corners of her eyes.
She is cursing summer and daylight, broken curtain rods stopping darkness from filling the night.
Nursing the blade and the blood towel, wishing for fresh wounds, the metallic smell of a bloodied towel.
Swearing at typos because she has fat thumbs, taking deep breaths and already sobering up.

Time for that second shot.
6:50pm.
It hasnt even been 30minutes.
Chokiing on the flavour.
Another half shot before the bath.
Water bottle nearby.
Always.
Responsible.
Reliable.

When the alcohol hits the feeling is euphoric, suddenly she understands her mothers alcoholism and loves it. loves herself loves her music and her dreams; she loves herself.
She knows it'll be forgotten in the morning, but for now staring up the fairy lights the knotted copper wires feeling her face it's all that matters; feeling Savvy against my leg, feeling nausea in my stomach, not caring how my hair feels, or looks just being dizzy and free.
Its like bloodletting bloodletting is amazing unstressed.
Savvy is really hot on my leg; I spent more time in the bath empty than with water in it and that was okay; I think I found my vacation.