The redness of my right wrist says I tried to hurt myself again. I ignore your narrow gaze now fixated on my hand just to access the degree of damage. As if the depth of the scars would indicate how prepared you need to be this time – to pull me back out of it again. Today, my responses are shorter and im more quiet that apologetic. Truth is, I’m too tired to apologise, too weary to muse up the courage to rationalise this perceived irrationality. 

Don’t. Don’t say it. 

Don’t you dare say I’m stronger than this. 

I’ve spent the last few weeks standing tall while the ground under my feet gave in. I’ve watched as the walls around me collapse, trapping me inside with my clusterphobic soul closing in on me each day. I’ve watched my anchor losing its grip, I’ve watched it give in to the waves of reality. And in return, I’ve watched my reality loose its grip. 
I’ve fallen – no – plummeted. 
I’ve plummeted in a speed only lightning could summon. 

So I took a sharp edge and drew it vertically across my slit. I was losing control –  I needed control. I had to be in control, to fight for the ones I love, to stay strong for the ones I loved. 

Your calculations were precise, the cuts weren’t deep. It was a little red line that wouldn’t leave a scar. 

Your calculations were precise, i was hurting but I was fighting back. 
But Lord, I’m exasperated. Worn out. 
Would you be strong for me for a while?
I look up, to reciprocate your concern gaze – maybe this time you will read me right, maybe this time you will know I’m not broken, just tired. Maybe this time you will console me instead. Maybe this time. 
I look up, to reciprocate your concern gaze,
And instead,
I find nothing,

I find no one. 


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