(She/her) 18

Venting/$h acc - if you don't vibe w it just block me don't report, it makes things worse I promise & you can always fix ur settings to block certain tags <3

she found me mid-collapse,

the floor kissing my cheek

like it understood me better than she ever tried to.

blood blooming out of me

like a secret I couldn’t hold in anymore.

and all she said was,

"Are you seriously pulling this dramatic shit again?"

like I wasn’t barely tethered to life.

then came her nails—

biting into my skin,

yanking me upright like I owed her

something more than death.

I didn’t cry.

not because I wasn’t in pain,

but because I was already somewhere else—

drifting toward that beautiful in-between

where the world quiets,

where your body feels optional.

she drove like she wanted to hit something.

I kept hoping it’d be me.

at the ER, they didn’t numb me.

just stitched me

like they were sewing up a broken doll

they planned to throw out anyway.

sighs.

eye rolls.

not a single hand held.

not a single ounce of care.

one muttered to the other,

“just keep an eye on her—she’s the type.”

like I was about to gnaw through my own skin

and bleed all over their time sheet.

the ward was clean, white,

silent in all the wrong ways.

they spoke to me like I was radioactive—

a thing to be guided,

not touched.

dinner at six.

meds at six-thirty.

no names.

no how are you feeling?

just calendars and pills

and eyes that never looked straight at me.

I learned quick:

don’t cry.

don’t scratch the stitches.

don’t speak too long in group.

they want a sad story, not a raw one.

they want trembling, not rage.

they want recovery they can chart.

I smiled.

sat still.

said the things they wanted to hear.

counted ceiling tiles

and dreamt about that moment—

the one where I felt myself slipping,

floating,

ascending or descending,

I still don’t care.

I just remember the peace.

the silence.

how close I came

to being free.

they said I was stable.

they discharged me

with pamphlets I’d never read

and prescriptions no one here will fill.

home was colder.

more violent.

more awake.

they told me to clean.

told me not to touch knives.

told me not to tell a soul

what happened.

"Don’t ruin my image,"

she spat,

"but I’ll be sure everyone knows

what a selfish little monster you are."

my meds were flushed.

my drawers were ransacked.

every text, every breath,

monitored.

"You lied to get pills.

You’re not sick.

You're just weak.

You're just like me,

only worse."

they crowded around me

like I was a bomb

they wanted to watch tick.

and through it all

I smiled.

distant.

docile.

polite.

because somewhere,

just behind their noise,

I could still hear it—

the hum of the flux state.

that gentle static

between here and the void.

and god,

I can’t wait to go back.

next time,

I’ll finish the job.

next time,

there won’t be a floor to find me on.

being alive now

feels like the cruelest outcome.

a punishment for trying to leave

this cruel little theatre.

I’m treated like a weapon

too dull to be useful

but too dangerous to discard.

happy to be back.

really.

I missed you all

almost as much

as I miss the silence

I fold my hands but nothing remains

Each whispered word, a cry in vain

The silence answers with bitter scorn

A hollow echo where hope is torn

I kneel on stone, my voice worn raw

Pleading to a void that sees no flaw

The air is thick with unanswered pleas

A mocking weight that brings me to my knees

I scream to the sky but it doesn't hear

My words dissolve, devoured by fear

What use is faith when it yields no reply?

When every prayer feels like a lie?

The ceiling stares with indifferent eyes

My prayers are echoes that never rise

I beg, I bargain, I scream, I cry

But the silence whispers, “Why even try?”

My chest caved in with the weight I bear

A fragile soul left gasping for air

The heavens refuse to acknowledge my despair

My cries fall lifeless, stripped and bare

The stars won't shine, they've all gone black

And every word feels like a crack

The faith I once had slips through my hands

Like grains of sand in desolate lands

The void devours my every plea

It's hunger grows; it's swallowing me

I asked for hope, I begged for grace

But nothing answers in this empty space

I see it now - there's no one there

No hand to hold, no voice to care

This barren silence, vast and true

Only I am here to pull me through

I clasp my hands, but my grip is weak

The silence answers the truth I seek

What use is prayer when the stars don't shine?

When every word feels like a line?

So now I sit, my hands deathly still

Drained by prayers that break, not heal

If God exists, He's deaf to me

I’ve been clean—

for what?

a week?

two?

long enough for the bruises to fade

but not long enough to forget

how I got them.

I see the scar

the one that almost

made me stop

everything.

and I wonder—

why do I miss it?

Because it made you real,

didn’t it?

The sting was honesty.

No masks. No forced smiles.

Just you,

and the blade,

and the proof

that you were still

alive enough to hurt.

But I’m scared.

I didn’t mean to go that far.

I shook when I saw the blood

pooling like it had a mind of its own.

I didn’t want to die.

I just wanted to breathe.

And wasn’t that breath

sweeter

than anything else you've tasted?

Wasn’t that first split

like prayer—

silver slicing sin

from skin?

You miss it because

it works.

Better than friends.

Better than therapy.

Better than God.

But is it helping

or hollowing?

Am I healing

or hiding?

Why do I even want this?

Because it listens.

It answers.

When the world goes mute,

when people look at you

but don’t see—

the blade sees.

The blood speaks.

Tell me—

didn’t you feel

cleaner

as it ran down your thigh?

It’s not relief anymore.

It’s ritual.

A vice.

I don’t want to want it.

I just do.

And maybe that’s enough.

Don’t call it addiction.

Call it devotion.

Don’t call it relapse.

Call it return.

But what am I returning to?

To yourself.

To the version of you

that doesn’t pretend.

The one that feels.

The one that bleeds.

The one that doesn’t have to explain

why she’s in pain

because the proof is painted

right there

on her skin.

God—

I’m trying.

I swear I am.

But every ordinary day

feels like crucifixion

and the blade—

the blood—

it feels like resurrection.

Found the bloody tissues—said it’s just a nosebleed,

Dry air in the winter, nothing more I need.

Spots along the carpet—tripped, I swear, and fell,

Bruises bloom like violets, but I carry them well.

Crimson in the sink, must’ve nicked my thigh,

Shaving fast, I mumbled, never met your eye.

Stains upon the sleeve, paint from class, I lied—

Pressed my pulse too harshly, but the truth still hides.

Drips across the tiles, a trail too long to fake,

Said I spilled some juice—just a harmless mistake.

Red mist in the bathtub, water turning thick,

I joked it off with laughter, feeling vaguely sick.

You found the gauze I hid beneath my jeans,

Told you I was saving it for someone in need.

The mirror cracked from another fall—

I said I slipped again, though I could barely crawl.

A sweater soaked, tossed under my bed,

I said it was ketchup. You looked at me and said—

Nothing. Just stared, like you couldn’t see,

Like I was some stranger you couldn’t believe.

The lies came faster than I could bleed,

Stacked like towels—red, then redder beneath.

I lost count of stories, names, and stains,

Bled through the fabric, through all my refrains.

I taped my wrists in a midnight haze,

Said it’s fashion. Said it’s just a phase.

You shrugged, then turned, pretending not to hear,

As if my cries were just the sound of fear.

But morning came with silence thick,

The bathroom door, the lock, the click.

And I was still. For once, no act—

No breath, no laugh, no quick comeback.

They found me there, soaked to the seam,

No more lies, no more dream.

Every wound exposed, a map I drew,

Of all the things I never told you.

The room was quiet. Time moved slow.

At first,

It was like armor

Chose the smile

Trained her voice soft and gentle

For the world’s comfort

She learned which parts of herself to silence

And which to show—

Just enough to look human

Never enough to be known

They called her sweet.

Well mannered.

As if the performance

Was something holy

She believed them

She believed it kept her safe

But over time

The mask pressed tighter—

Until it wasn't worn

But fused

Until her skin forgot the difference

Between pretending

And breathing

She tried to pull it off once

Her fingers slipped—

Cut on the edges

That’s when she realized:

It wasn’t a mask

It was a gag

Something sewn to her mouth

So gently

She mistook it for her own lips

And now

Every word she doesn’t say

Scratches at her throat

Like something feral

Locked too long in the dark

She flinches

At kindness

Not because she doesn’t want it—

But because she does

And it terrifies her

Outstretched hands

Look like open wounds

She imagines touching them

And shattering—

Because she is made

Of broken glass

Held together by apologies

And hope thin as spider silk

You can only tape the cracks

So many times

Before the light starts to leak out

At night,

She thinks of who she was

Before the silence took root

Before the act became instinct

Before the mask taught her

That stillness

Is safer than truth

And in the mirror

Mask fissured

Hands trembling

She whispers

Sometimes,

it’s lighting a cigarette

with shaking hands

and sucking in the poison like it’s air—

because maybe if you smoke enough,

your lungs will rot

and you won’t have to do anything

but wait.

It’s stepping off the curb

without looking.

Cars blur past and maybe

one will take you out—

but you don’t flinch,

because dying that way

feels easier than doing this

again tomorrow.

Sometimes it’s fucking someone

you don’t know,

hoping their body carries

something sharp,

something irreversible.

You say yes when you want to scream

because maybe disease

is more merciful than time.

It’s not eating,

not sleeping,

staying up so long

your brain starts to rot,

because maybe your heart

will forget how to beat.

Maybe your body will cave in

without you needing

to lift a finger.

It’s leaving the tap on,

touching doorknobs,

never washing your hands—

let the germs in.

Let them feast.

Let the fever drown you

in something that isn’t

your own mind.

It’s ignoring the people

who still say they love you.

Snapping at them.

Pushing them out

until all you have left

is the silence you think you deserve.

It’s not setting your alarm

because who the fuck cares

if you lose your job—

what’s the point of clocks

when time only reminds you

you’re still here?

It’s chugging drinks

until your liver can’t keep up.

Until you forget your name.

Until the mirror

stops recognizing you.

It’s saying yes

to anything that might hurt.

It’s playing chicken

with your own heartbeat—

daring it to stop.

Being suicidal

isn’t always a note on a nightstand.

It’s not always a blade

or a bridge.

Sometimes,

it’s just letting everything rot.

Letting yourself fall apart

slowly—

quietly—

hoping the world

doesn’t notice

until you’re already gone.

Not trying to die.

Just not trying