…like I’m tightening this noose around my neck, uncertain if you’ll break through the doors at the last moment. Uncertain if you’ll come to kick down the chair I’m teetering on-barely balancing. Or will you cut me down and carry me back to life.
I keep telling myself that it’s ok yet when I’m alone the wounds from my cuts remind me that they run deep. My heart bleeds a cocktail of blood, and regret. The pain of remorse tears at me and renders me speechless. Tongue-less, tears being the only way I can try to speak.