Bullet After Bullet

I rest the barrel against my head as my eyes water. My eyes water, but not of distraught or pain, but of hope. A hope of peace and a hope of being settled. A smile forms across my face as my finger clenches against the trigger. A ringing fills my ears as my soul steps out of my body. I look down upon my lifeless body doing nothing more than making a mess, taking up space.

The ringing stops.

I feel it in my chest. I feel it. It is still here.

I drop to my knees as the demons walk out of the shadows.

“Oh honey did you really think you could get rid of us that easily”

I grab the gun from my dead body and raise it to my head. I pull the trigger and the bullets shoot through me into the wall. Bullet after bullet until the chamber is empty. Laughter fills the room along with my now hopeless sobs. I crawl to my body and lay with it in the pool of blood which has formed. I cradle my dead body in my arms as the torment continues.

“You will never escape us”

They surround me and I realize I will never be free from this.

“It’s okay to cry”

I stare into my eyes as the tears fall down my cheek. My crystal blue eyes gleam back at me in the mirror. My demons take root in me. “God I am so beautiful when I am in pain” I feel comfort in my hurt. A level of acceptance in my tears that I cannot form when I smile. To my eyes, my smile is nothing more than a fake picture framed for all to see. Allowing everyone else to keep their level of comfort in the idea of my contentment. In the idea that I feel something other than self hate when I see my teeth shine through my lips, in the moments where my demons like to tease me with the idea of happiness. Then they remind me of how beautiful I am when I frown. When the corners of my lips remain down… like my head… like my body in my bed. With all of these voices in my head, no I swear I am not crazy, but maybe, just maybe, I am lying. I stare into my eyes as the tears fall down my cheek. It’s okay to cry they remind me, but God forbid I crack a smile. Crack a smile and they crack the whip on the resting being of my anxiety. Now sprinting, frantic. The panic attack begins.  I stare into my eyes as the tears fall down my cheek. I realize I am no longer there. I calm. My chest is empty and my ears ring in the sound of my ending. I exhale slowly hoping it’s the last time. I breathe back in as I cry and cry and cry. I watch the tears leaving their mark on my face. Reminding me that my death is trapped in a still living body. My body the house of a lost soul which died long ago. I stare into my eyes as the tears fall down my cheek. And I stare into the face of death. Me.

“What’s wrong?’

You ask me “what’s wrong”

and I am really trying to stay strong.

But I sit around all day long

with a tornado for a mind and crypt as a bed,

with demons ripping me into pieces within my head,

and the only thing I want is to be dead.

Yes, when I touch the cool air

there is cold, but really no feelings there.

And I’ve noticed that the way I love remains unfair:

push push away,

but my soul begs you to stay.

And through these tears I admit I am afraid

because throughout the years

that I have been here

my purpose has been blurry and a little unclear.

My body rocks as my heart stops,

stops

stops.

Then the numbness of death fills my chest

like the same feeling of what little love I have left,

the little bit of hope which makes me obsessed.

No.

I must go.

So I drag my body, slow.

Slowly my skin scabs and bruises

and I’m content with all the blood my body loses.

I know, my words don’t seem to make much sense,

but the feeling in my body is so intense.

I’m sorry for not being okay

and I’m sorry if my love is just in your way.

And I am sorry that there’s never enough or way too much for me to say.