Maybe I should wear makeup. I never thought I needed it, but I feel you don't like what you see. Maybe I should pick up a brush and create something new. Would I be enough for you with paint on my face and pink powder on my cheeks? Would I be the kind of girl you'd show off to your friends if I wore more feminine clothes covered in flowers and lace? If my hair were longer, if I had a straight smile, if I flipped my hair back every time I laughed, would I be pretty then?
I was lying there on my back staring at your ceiling. My wrists burned from how tight you'd fastened them to the metal part of your bed frame and I couldn't breathe. I wasn't sure what to do next. I felt nothing. Not the kind of nothing where you're going through a depressive episode and you feel like nothing kind of nothing. I could not feel a single thing. I didn't feel cold. I didn't feel sad. I didn't feel scared. I felt nothing and in that moment I truly got to experience what being dead felt like. It's an empty abyss with nowhere to go and you don't feel a thing, but you keep waiting for something to happen and it never ever does. You just die. You can't hear anything. Every sound collides together so fast that you can't hear it. For a while, I stayed there thinking I was screaming. I started hearing myself repeat the same line over and over and over and over again. "STOP PLEASE THIS HURTS" "PLEASE STOP" "PLEASE..."