sixty gallons of water dyed red

the color of life- sadness. goodbyes- both bitter, and sweet. what drove you there? letting your eyes leak, without a sound, except the splash of yet another droplet of the salty sweet eye-liquid, adding onto the seventy-two others. is it that? or the 48 man made, raised, bloody crevices on your body? the people telling you you’re less than average? that you look like you belong in a psyche ward? too skinny? skinny? the words, the words, pouring in. waters running. “you have a purpose” “you’re here for a reason”. who said that reason can’t be to terrorize everyone, and make everyone miserable living their own lives, just by you being present? “no, you don’t do that”. but what if that’s my purpose. ten gallons in. remember that time that person compared you to the size of people at concentration camps- starving and crippled. twenty gallons. “do you think you’re beautiful? look in a mirror”; the thing i avoid. others think people like me have two best friends- the mass measuring death sentence, and or the reflective surface that solidify my beliefs. well, no. i rely heavily on my pointer finger and thumb around my arm. sit ups? never enough. the word enough means nothing. thirty gallons. “have you been eating? you look really skinny.” forced to do what i’ve been told- look. look up. the purple, beat up looking color i’ve gained around my eyes just proves my point. i turn to the side to reveal, nothing. forty gallons. “when will it be enough” little do they know i will never be happy with myself; how could someone be happy with a monster? these fragile pieces of marrow and hard stuff show through the thin material- it’s all that’s left; my angel wings. fifty gallons. “how does it feel?” what, feeling? you’re asking the wrong person. i do what i do to get closer to the thing that will make me feel. the one thing that some people hide behind- what they are scared of, i tend to invite in various ways. i want this for myself. no, it wasn’t because of shit you may have said in the fourth grade. verbal abuse is barely a factor. this is how my messed up mind works; as it always will. there is no fixing- it will grow and grow and who knows how much left of me there will be. sixty gallons. stripping off the baggy pieces of cloth i attempt to hide myself behind. stepping into the hot yet cold water. the drowsy years present themselves as i stare at “myself” in the reflection of the weapon- my life saver. head tilts back; this wasn’t a life. this wasn’t hell. this was- what was this? a fucking waste of time. “what about the ones you love?” my boyfriend- poor guy. love him too much. the fact he makes me feel, scares me. the fact i feel some sort of happiness around him- terrifying. looking at the strange tubes on my body that are heavily visible through the thin layer that protects these tubes that secure the fact i am alive- pumping life through me- the blue, disgusting looking things. a gust of wind seems to hit me. i switch focus onto the other one, covered in strange moles and marks, and again those ugly tubes. heavy breeze. i dip the now life-oozing arms into the last thing i will ever feel. i bow my head back and smile. this one’s for you. i smile thinking about how i actually felt around you. you make me so happy. you MADE me so happy. it was just too much for me. living hurt. i love you- and that scared me. everything becomes as if i were in a movie-like dream sequence, smile permanently there; like a nightmare sticks with a child. sixty gallons of liquids dyed red.