I’m crumbling. I sit on my bed in dejection, trembling, with tears streaming down my made up skin. My eyes are a blur of black as my mascara smears around them. I just sit on my bed and cry, unsure of what to do with myself, unsure of what I even am anymore. Each tear feels like it’s tearing at my flesh, like my eyes are bleeding red instead of salty teardrops.

I can’t even tell you what pushed me over the edge; it’s just my mind. My beautifully, tragically twisted mind. I want to drown in my own tears, float amidst a sea of salt and blood.

No, it’s not just my mind. It’s him. He says he loves me. He says I’m his everything. But I don’t deserve it. I don’t deserve love; I don’t deserve to be anyone’s anything. I deserve to cry; I deserve to suffer, I deserve to die. I don’t deserve him in any way and it makes me crazy. That’s what it is. He makes me crazy.

I’m tearing my room apart. Love letters and poetry flies everywhere as I wreck havoc among my own belongings. Pens adorn the floor amidst crumpled pieces of paper filled with words I could never really say. But none of this is what I’m looking for; god, why can’t I find what I’m looking for? I search desperately through a cardboard box filled with miscellaneous products to make me look beautiful, to make me look like something I’m not. Eyeliner and nail files are dumped on the floor as I turn the box upside down, still searching, always searching for something. Finally I find the object of my obsession – a beautifully simplistic razorblade.

Tears are still streaming down my face as my trembling fingers grip the tiny blade. I don’t even think twice as I slide the sleek metal across my wrist, once, twice. I keep hacking at my arm; I deserve this. I deserve to suffer. Soon my skin is dripping with pretty beads of blood, smeared with the most tragic shade of red.

There’s no more room on my wrist for scars. I’m already bleeding my life out through the veins of my forearm. But it’s not enough; it’s never enough. I look at my bare leg with disdain. The skin is so smooth and beautiful, so soft and white. I can’t stand it; I don’t deserve to be beautiful. I squeeze the razorblade between my fingers, and slash a line into the flesh of my leg. And all I can think is, how much do you love me now? Before I know it there’s words carved into my leg, words oozing with the bloody feelings that are consuming my mind. How much do you love me now?

And then it’s passed. I’m covered in blood, trembling and still crying my eyes out, mascara bleeding down my cheeks. I can’t stand it anymore; I hate myself. I’m not worthy of anything I have or anything I’ll ever get. I’m not worthy of his love.

A thought crosses my mind as I stare at the contents of my cardboard box lying on the floor. A bottle of anti-depressants is lying there, calling to me. They can make this better. They can make this go away.

I down the whole bottle, waiting for their power to take this burden off my mind. Waiting for them to take away all that is me.