Cerulean

Up at 00:38

warning: self-harm and suicide

My feet shuffle around as I pace, even though I can't see what I'm doing. The lights are all out, everyone's asleep -- only the Morningstar and the moon keep me company, watching me intrusively from the kitchen sink.

Everything was black, him, me, my phone screen -- all because of me. I don't think about things, and I was smiling. Everything was coming apart, it was all my fault. I was numbed out from the weekend, and taking things lightly hurt even more than cutting would.
He was angry, of course. I couldn't blame him: being available for exes in a relationship was pretty bad, even for me. On my end, things were going according to plan.

I chased him away, he left, I wrote a sappy note and died knowing that he now knew that he deserved better -- like I haven't told him a million times. He was an angel, really, he thought he could fix me somehow, help me grow better like an abused succulent.
I wished that he could.

I don't even think. I thrust the container to my lips p ... but I hesitate.
“Give me one good reason to drink this,” my mind says, among other things, “It'll hurt like a bitch and a half, and you can talk to him about it, tell him about the plan.”

My problem was that I didn't know how to start, how to express this. How do you tell someone that thought you were getting better, that you still think that you're better off in a casket. Imagine: "Hey babe, you know all that progress you thought you were getting with me? Haha, no lovely, I still want to die."

Surely rather telling him that I borderline cheated is a softer blow?

I set down the plastic cup, hands stretched onto the table in front of me and trembling, and I couldn't tell if it was from the cold or from what I was about to do.
Why couldn't I just stick to the fucking script? I just need to drink it, every other step was already executed.

“You can't leave him like this, he doesn't deserve it.” He's halfways about to dump me, as he should. I shouldn't have met him -- now I'm stuck like this.

Memories of us being happy start to cloud my judgement and I'm rocking on the heels of my socks.
Why can't you just let me die?

I can't even cry as I scuffle back to my bed, deleting all the good-byes and "I love you"s. My throat doesn't feel like mine as I struggle to swallow down my own disappointment. It's thicker in my palms than I remember.

“You're so gorgeous.” He says, and I blush at the praise.

“Beautiful” “Lovely” “Sweetpea”. He called me kind. I wanted to believe that, for both of our sakes. The kind one though was always him, and I'm just a monster. A disgusting, little monster that couldn't die.

I take my hands away, fighting the urge to hurt myself. I always do this when I'm finally happy. I know I don't deserve it, he does. He'll always deserve better than what I can give and it's nobody's fault but mine that I'm like this.

My body shuffles around as I shift, even though I can't see what I'm doing. The lights are all out, everyone's asleep -- only the Morningstar and the moon keep me company, watching me intrusively from the bedroom windowsill.

Maybe one day, I'll succeed and finally go away, but not now.