Weapon of Choice

Alcohol? My body? A knife?

All are good options.

I'm partial to words. My body and a bottle. The sting of conversation is enhanced when a loosened tongue lashes out with abandon because of it's had too many drinks pass over it. I've been trying to avoid myself. Through you.

I've been trying to avoid being the person I can be with you. It hasn't been working, although there's no reason it shouldn't. Except that what little control I have I have lost.

I've been on my medication for a little over a month., They've told me I can come off it. I've been shaking and laughing when I want to cry. I've had visions of beating myself unconscious hoping to bleed out. Of stabbing over and over to drain all the pressure of being alive out of my body. I've started screaming. Throaty roars over nothing. This has been the worst experiment. I don't like being my own experiment. A doctor's collaborative project. I'd rather have someone else be the project.

I've been productive today. It's Galentine's day. Not proper- but celebrated. I haven't eaten. I've been drinking. I've been talking. I cleaned. I watched the arrhythmic undulations of breath move The Kitten's body with scorn for a life that has no rhythm because it has no order. It's all entropic collisions lacking meaning. The pulsing in my head is discordant. Thoughts rush through and echo over each other. All I want to do is make things better, but all I can think of is how to make things worse. How to be unbearable.

If I can't bear myself you shouldn't be able to. I can't imagine how I'm going to get through tonight.

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