- cinira 'nyiah's pov // (20) - july 7th 2022
- tw: blood? lil peep - no respect
"i'ma get this, and can i get a pack of gum?" i sit the box of tape and gauzes on the counter. "i want the mint kind,"
the dark skin boy behind the counter turns around a lil and stretches his arm out to grab the pack of spearmint from the shelf, then he turn back around and start to ring everything up. "gon' be 13.59," he mutters and i slide him the twenty.
he hold it up to the light before pressing sum buttons on the register, and when he done, he hand me my bag and my change. "whatchu need a medical kit for anyway?" he ask when i take my bag from him. "somebody got hurt?"
i'm hurt.
and my hoodie sleeve is all sticky and soaked with blood by now, but i did it to myself so it ain't his business.
i obviously ain't gon' reply to him cause he nosey as fuck. i don't like nosey people.
all he supposed to do is ring my stuff up and yell for the next customer, not try and get information up outta me.
i take my bag and leave the store, ignoring sum old man sitting outside the store with his cardboard sign that reads, 'anything u can give us appreciated :) food ?? money ??'
it ain't never been like me to give them types of people no kinds of stuff. my grandma told me if i gave them money they wasn't gonna do nothing with it but get high. she would always be like, 'why get them high when i can give it to my son and let him get high? why would i pay for a stranger to smoke when i can just help somebody i know'
she ain't never help out nobody though. my grandma the stingiest person i know.
i walk several blocks until i find a random mcdonald's and go in, walking straight into the bathroom.
it's only one stall in here and it's empty, so i go inside.
when i lock the door behind myself, it's like my legs tryna give out on me and i nearly end up trippin' over, but i don't, i lean my side against the door for something to hold me up.
i feel something wet roll down my arm and when i pull up my sleeve i see the cuts i made somehow got worse.
they long cuts.
i'm not the person to do stuff like cutting but i been sad for the last few days and the knife dad use to cut stuff was on the kitchen counter so i just did it.
my arm sting. it feel like a slow type of pain and as slow as the pain is, i slide down the stall wall, slower.
my chest rise and fall fast but i try and breathe slow. the noise from the people outside ordering they food get quiet and quiet. my eyes won't stop getting blurry.
everything getting real dark.
i'm a lil cold.
my blood making a mess on the floor and it's wetting my jeans but honestly, i hope i just bleed out 'cause i want to die.
'cause, like, these last four months i haven't been feeling shit but anger. everything i see makes me angry, everything i do make me mad as shit, and i'm tired all the time.
everything either don't mean shit to me or it mean the whole fucking world but it's never nun in between.
i can't keep friends. that's my fault.
i ain't a good friend and i never have been. i don't know why i'm like the way i am and i don't wanna be the way i am, but i'm.
i wish i wasn't so obsessed with shit and i wish i knew how to handle myself better.
when i'm mad i know i'm too much. i know i don't listen and i don't think before i do and i don't got no regards to nobody well-being but my own.
