a sick addiction in a downwards spiral
it's brighter outside now, the sun peaks from behind the clouds so the light inside my room is sharp, too sharp.
it makes reality seem so much more cruel. at first, the sight made me ill.
i felt like.. not like i'm gonna throw up.. but a little nauseous.
it's sick, it's twisted and it's not right.
there are cuts all over your arm, crisscrossing aimlessly like a vision of pure panic or desperation.
some of the scars are so old that they've almost faded away, but some of them are so new and so fresh that they look like they were made just yesterday. the flesh is still tender and red, almost infected. for a brief second i closed my eyes and hope that when i opened them, they'd be gone. but they're there, in all their agonizing glory. i never thought this about you. i didn't know it was this bad, screams carved into your wrists. has anybody ever heard you?
more open wounds, more scars, more self-destructing patterns and more unbelievable pain. there's too many, you've fallen.
i traced some of the scabs, fascinated by the ugly patterns. it's like a morbid painting. they're deep enough to be suicidal if you'd placed them somewhere else. if you'd cut along the veins instead of across them. the thinnest part of your wrists where the veins are most visible is suprisingly free from cuts. like you only do it to hurt yourself. that thought is even more sickening, only to hurt yourself. i didn't know you suffered this much.
how am i supposed to shield you from yourself when all you are is a silent mess?
be careful, tripp
i love you
/ kris
