She sits alone engulfed in a cloud of self hate. Dragging the blade ever so slowly to leave marks that define the most vast edges of her pain. Pushing deeper down to feel the tips of her fingers grazing the miniature puddles of blood forming on her thigh. Picking the blade up vigorously. Only to drag the edge of discharging pain across her skin once again. Continuously creating new gaps, letting the misery spring out of her body with full force. She drops the blade out of fickleness. Attempting to reverse what she has done by uncouthly wiping the blood forward to her knee. Pushing the vital fluid to fall upon the floor like a leaking faucet that never ceases. Quickly building up to be a plash that is beyond gruesome. And the gore of it speaks out to her. Telling her “This is the way it must be.” Letting her tears run loose down her unyieldingly soft skin. She runs her hands peculiarly over the fresh carvings on her canvas. Filling the valleys with a curious feel. Leaning back to lay down upon her dense mattress. Shutting her eyes to find peace. Slowly turning to her side and straining to pull her knees to her rapid and shallow respiration in her chest. Trembling from the lack of clothes in the uninsulated room in what is now a winter free of warmth. With the frigid air whisping head on to the pane of glass, chill to the touch.
She stares blankly at the peeling wallpaper. Studying how the torn and uneven edges create scenes. Running her finger along the mountainous pattern of the plaster. Discovering every loose rock to create another landslide. Becoming aware of the fringes that shift to the direction of her breath. Examining how something so small makes something so much bigger than itself. Just as though the blood she has lost has gave her life. The life she is slowly losing with every ounce of fluid that escapes her and seeps into the padding beneath her. Staining each fiber a color of cardinal red. Saturated by her pool of wrongdoing. She lays still, the first time in forever. Taking in the scent of the bittersweet air, the taste of a dry tongue, and the sensation of the sheets balled in her fists, gasping for air. At last softening the tension in her shoulders and neck to a mir mush of skin and muscle. Steadying her breath to match the breeze hitting the windows. Opening her clammy palms. Giving her knuckles time to rest themselves. Breathing in one final breath to let it out to kiss the atmosphere one last goodbye.
The room is filled with a heavy silence that could weigh down a giant. A lake of blood and tears to swim in. And a stench that could burn the hairs directly off the inside of one's nose.