(no subject)
Your hand on his arm
The hay stack charm around your neck
Strung out and thin
Calling some friend trying to cash some check
He’s acting dumb
That’s what you’ve come to expect
There went his third bedroom mirror. And a glass that had until recently been half filled with water. One pane of his bedroom window, and his bathroom mirror. There was a hole on the inside of his bedroom door, and a reddish dent in the plaster of his wall. His feet were bleeding, his hands were bleeding, his heart was bleeding. His head was pounding, his eyes were blind from the salt. He was screaming, raging, crying, dying.
He was lucky his mother was out of town.
He collapsed on his bedroom floor. He ignored the sliver of glass that had found its way into his cheek, and its partner in his arm. He lie there, choking and sobbing. He was nothing anymore. He wasn't himself, and he didn't have anything to ground him, nothing to anchor him. He might as well be dead.
When he would awake in the morning, at four, because he had gone without pills for days now, he would feel the splitting pain in his left hand, the shooting pain all over his body. He had fractured a finger, and he was going to need stitches. But tonight he didn't care. No, he wouldn't care tomorrow either. But he'd do something about it tomorrow. Tonight, he simply screamed and sobbed and lost himself into oblivion.
FUCK
The hay stack charm around your neck
Strung out and thin
Calling some friend trying to cash some check
He’s acting dumb
That’s what you’ve come to expect
There went his third bedroom mirror. And a glass that had until recently been half filled with water. One pane of his bedroom window, and his bathroom mirror. There was a hole on the inside of his bedroom door, and a reddish dent in the plaster of his wall. His feet were bleeding, his hands were bleeding, his heart was bleeding. His head was pounding, his eyes were blind from the salt. He was screaming, raging, crying, dying.
He was lucky his mother was out of town.
He collapsed on his bedroom floor. He ignored the sliver of glass that had found its way into his cheek, and its partner in his arm. He lie there, choking and sobbing. He was nothing anymore. He wasn't himself, and he didn't have anything to ground him, nothing to anchor him. He might as well be dead.
When he would awake in the morning, at four, because he had gone without pills for days now, he would feel the splitting pain in his left hand, the shooting pain all over his body. He had fractured a finger, and he was going to need stitches. But tonight he didn't care. No, he wouldn't care tomorrow either. But he'd do something about it tomorrow. Tonight, he simply screamed and sobbed and lost himself into oblivion.
FUCK