*nerium*

I remember the sky, as it dimmed to dark blue, and how all at once, I had felt one with you. I remember the bed, unmade and small, and the faintest of shadows that painted your wall. I remember the garden, the grass and the due, and sitting to watch the sunrise with you. I remember this space, open and clear, and all of the things you would whisper in here.

I remember the day when you said you had to go, but the reason of which I still do not know.

And I feel sick for hoping you die but how am I supposed to ever live if you are constantly pushing me into the ground? I can't breathe around you and I don't know if it's your hand compressing my throat or all of the dirt you are forcing into my mouth as you crush me under your insufferable weight. I feel sick for hoping you die, but what is worse? Hoping for someone's death or trying to kill them?

I would strip my skin off for you. I would let you see me, whole, with no inhibitions. I would strip my skin off for you, leaving nothing left but flesh and bone, and the tendons that flex beneath my muscle. I would let you view me in this state, entirely bare and vulnerable, and I will do it because you have simply asked. I would endure the stares and the ridicule, the sneering and the harassment, because I am doing this for you; because you asked me to. The difference is, as I streak blood throughout the house and my skin slowly dries within the closet, you will do nothing. You will not reassure me and you will hardly look my way. I have felt that recently, you have wanted to see me as a half. You no longer wish to see me as I am, but instead hidden in plain sight, shrouded in my skin. I have ground embarrassed and ashamed, but I can no longer go back; I no longer fit within my skin. I wish I could grow it back, to hide again. Perhaps then you will start loving me.

You look so sad all the time, it makes me want to scream. I want to grab you by the neck and scream "Stop it! Stop this! Stop looking so f.u.cking sad all the godd.a.amn time!". I hate it so much, and you make me so angry because I am trying, okay? I am trying so d.a.mn hard to make you happy but still it isn't good enough because everything just turns to sh.i.t. I hate it most of all because the amount of times I have punched you has broken all my mirrors.

I like his hands. I like the lack of warmth, how they are so cold and dry against my heated palm. I like how, gradually, they begin to warm from the radiation of my own nervous hands, and how he doesn't let go when my palm begins to slip with sweat. I like the sublte way in which he grasps my wrist, and how he will place my hand into his jacket pocket, so we can bask in the comfort of a secret. I like his hands, the roughness of his palm and the blue defintion of his veins, but I like them especially when they are holding mine. 

And if you love your friends, then teach them all the difference between reason and reasons.

I lay in bed and watch the wall, where not much happens; not much at all. I feel so sick, I feel so dead - I'm told I'm just sick in the head. At I first I was sad, which soon lead to numb; my medication don't work and my therapist's dumb. But now I'm just tired - I'm not bothered at all, so I'll continue to lay and stare at the wall.