TW bl00d, su!c!d@l thoughts, d34th the sicky-sweet smell of the second floor bathroom isn't close to the cure for my nausea. no one will understand this feeling, the sick feeling of having your gut ripped out while your heart weighs you down with guilt and regret. it's every second of this g0dd@mn life, this pa!n of being alone. life isn't the same once you've lived a little. when you're small, the only thing that matters is warmth. when you're, let's say, ten, and you think back, warmth is a stup!d thing to want. the only thing I want is for my heart to finally stop in its tracks, realize that it's got nothing to beat for, and let me d!3. The cabinets hurt as I bang my shoulder against them, but the pa!n is a b100dy, beautiful feeling. 'don't stop,' my thoughts scream, and i listen, continue banging my shoulder, until my head joins in. then the door creeps open, and i'm face to face with my mother, mine drenched with tears, sweat, and b100d. s-!t. she's here. i wipe the b100d from my eyes, look at her, then creak the bathroom door closed. "wait, laylabae-" there it is. her nickname for me. I h8 it, h8 the fact that she named me after Layla Mead (iykyk). i h8 her. the thought races through my b100d, and it feels so good, so deserved. I h8 this pa!n. I h8 it all. let it be. I scream and scream, until it feels like my thr0at can't handle it, and then i'm coughing b100d all over the tile, my mom is dialing 911, and screaming into the phone. my dad is freaking, and I see the world tint black until there's no color left, just the feeling of choking on my own b100d. Then it stops, and I hold onto the bliss. The b100d soaks my shirt, but I don't mind, it's Mom's anyway. then there is a voice. sweet as honey and sharp as kn1ves. " Layla, breathe." and I do.
