Your heart beats mechanically, turned by the willpower of none but the mice that occupy your troubled brain, and you want to laugh because they know nothing of what you've become.

You sit with your hand around your wrist and the needle hangs from the porous vein and it’s all too much. The fingers scarcely meet anymore, the pads barley touching, and you sigh until you can breathe no more and your chest aches with the need to draw oxygen (tofeelsomething)

Your skin is crawling with the tiny feet of thousands of invisible bugs, and you shake and jitter but it is never enough. It’s cold outside, a pleasant breeze caressing the air, softly, but the air you breathe is stagnant and-

Pressed under the weight of a thousand names you can’t remember, people you tried to forget, and-

 the needle, dripdripdripping into the vein begins to burn and you grin because you can feel it, but grimace because its liquid money dissolving in a stream of cautious blood and You cannot afford it anymore. You cannot afford to bleed.

It’s the 18th of February, raining and dark, but the room is humid and smells like burning. Your marrow is frozen and your eyes are raw, but you are home.

Hope fills Your lungs and Your head upon every heaving inhale, but exhale- and its gone in a cloud of carbon dioxide and unfulfilled ambition and you try desperately to breathe it all back but its-

Painful lullabies from timid mouths fill the room and you want to die but you are drowning in life, its been eight hours with the needle in your vein and the poison at the tip but it wont-

d r i p

and suddenly its too much, the weight of life and breath and air and you stem it all with the help of sleep and a little pill you don’t know the name of anymore, but she promised you it’d help, and you believ(ed) her.

You sleep until your eyes refuse to stay closed, and then the new day is here, but it’s the same as the other days so you place the same needle back into the same hole, sit in the same place in the same white room, and you look at the same place on the same wall and you’re the same person.

You’re the same person, ever day, with the same browning needle in the same yellowing arm and you hate you.

You hate you more than you thought you ever would- and that scares you because-

the needle dripdripdrips into your arm, and you bathe in the quiet that follows because the silence is too noisy and her voice is always there, so you block it out with screaming and shouting, that became your new quiet, but she always returns so you-

pouring more brown into the pointed friend and she’s gone, again, but you know she’ll be back, like last time, (shecameback), but this silences her for a while and that’s all you need-

Really, you’re to timid to die, but you’re scared of life and so you try to subtly kill yourself so death doesn’t notice and doesn’t take your discoloured soul. You promise yourself that tonight- really- tonight it’ll be different and the radioactive liquid in the tiny pouch will find its solace in the cavern of your stomach- but it never comes and so it rots and becomes the only constant in your life.

Your heart beats mechanically, turned by the willpower of none but the mice that occupy your troubled brain, and you want to laugh because they know nothing of what you’ve become.

It rots, in your mind, with the promise of a better life and she leaves you sat in a puddle of your own filth weeping hysterically for a woman you never knew but wish you did.

you wilt, there, dreaming of stories you will never tell and the constant

d r i p


of the lies in your veins.

The End

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