“There was once a story and around me I see plenty.
“I never would have thought there wouldn’t be one for me.”
“Never thought I’d be the one to cut down the family tree”
I’m scribbling on the chalkboard that’s in my head. I keep writing and erasing similar sentences. They just don’t come any closer to cracking this open. This isn’t what I want to say.
There’s a voice that’s screaming, carried to and fro upon the winds. It’s not mine. It is of a pain that’s not mine. Where is it coming from? Why can’t I find you,
whoever you are.
I turn over again, looking back at the clock for what seems the thousandth time in an eternal night. It’s still 3am. It’s been 3am for months. Or years- I can’t recall how long I’ve actually been here. I can’t bring to mind what I’ve done with all the time. I reach over for the little orange pill with the skull, pop another in my mouth, take a long swig from a bottle, and roll back over to stare at the little weeping angel above me.
I’m scrawling on my skin with red ink. I can’t find the right spot on my body to write what’s eating at me inside when my brain is screaming again. My sleeve is torn where I already bear a scraggled, twisted heart. I’ve finally run out of room.
I throw myself down into the icy waters and sink to the bottom. I lie there, studying the world’s dim light refracting through the ocean around me. Everything is silent here. Here, I’m OK. as long as I can hold my breath, which today is much longer than it should be.
I hold the knife to my throat again. The days are carved into my chest, just where you can’t see. A drop of blood and I remember what it is to be alive, but a river could never say the proper words.
I’m fumbling with the lock- the one that holds these chains together that are digging deeper, embedding into my skin. If I could just reach it.
I press the barrel to my temple and pause for the hundredth time. I study the weight of the instrument in my hand, and softly whistle a few notes to myself. Just one nerve impulse away.
All I need is once.