The knife is in my quivering hands. Not just in my hands, but resting upon my wrists, which are already painted with white slits. My face is mottled from crying, and the carpet is tarnished from previous showers of my blood. But when the fluid pours from my arms this time, it won't happen again.
My chest tightens at the thought of my friends... I promised them I wouldn't do this, because I've tried it before. But they've heard the things that they say to me... I guess you could call them "bullies," but they're so much worse than that... They are my demons, and they won't fly away, to perch on some other hel