Lifers

by K.C. Blume

How fucked is that? Give the girl with bipolar disorder and depression ninety coffin-shaped pills at the same pharmacy where she can buy a ten-pack of razors and see how creative she can get.

I’d known I was going to go through with it and had seen in true crime documentaries about how people tend to shit themselves when they die. No way was I going to let someone find me covered in my own feces.

I’d be lying if I said that a pang of jealousy didn’t spread throughout my chest then. It’s the sharpest knife held by the least forgiving hand.

Mischief. It’s a language that I’m well versed in, though I don’t get up to much of it these days—not since the cold has settled into my bones.

Some days, I think it would just be easier to admit defeat and become the monster Elsberry so badly needs me to be.

We’re not well. We never will be.

How quickly they climb toward the sun, eyes wide open and retinas burning, allowing its beauty to blind all my reason. They shrivel up in just a few days, but they still manage to do the same thing next year.

Riley looks like girls I’ve taken home after too many drinks. Except those girls don’t look half as good once I sober up, and she’s still fucking beautiful in a place where we’re all forced to be human.

PS: I think you’re pretty, too.

“Sexy” isn’t “beautiful” or “pretty”. Calling someone sexy is like telling them that you want to possess them, that you want to own their body and essence at least for one night while calling someone beautiful is an admiration. It’s a love poem spoken aloud and to the muse.

Pity, because I know that I’m going to rip her apart. It’s what I do, and a part of me likes it. Pity, because she’s going to let me, and a part of her will love the pain.

The love bombing, the pet names, the subtle touches, and the eagerness to take care. I eat that shit the fuck up every. single. time.

She turns to kiss my palm, and I’ve never felt tenderness before knowing her. I’ve never known a connection before our eyes met, but now it is an understanding that I will search for in everyone.

“I’ll eat you alive, Riley,”

“Do you think I’ll taste good?”

“I think you’re going to be my favorite meal.”

I think that’s the difference between loving boys and girls. The kinship that connects us allows our inhibitions to disperse into the air with the smoke.

Regulating your emotions doesn’t make you sane; it just makes you a better actor.

Every night since then, she has called to me in body and spirit. Not by mouth, but by soul. Hers calls to mine in the dark, and if she is the siren in the night, then I am the willing sailor diving into the sea, happily drowning myself so that she might find companionship amongst the algae.

She said she would eat me whole, and here I am, ready to spoil her dinner.

I want to rip her open and carve my name onto her ribs just to live close to her heart forever.

There’s something ethereal about loving a woman, something that I’ve never experienced with anyone else.

You’ve just got more emotions than your beautiful body can handle sometimes.”

When you’re diagnosed with a personality disorder, any inkling of your credibility goes out the window.

She’s different. She’s a different human every single day, and that is such a breath of fresh air compared to my chronic grays. I’ve been searching for that light at the end of the tunnel for so fucking long, and it is her.

You have to want to get better in order to get better, and maybe I’ve never really wanted it before now.

I just wanted the pain to end.

my heart beats faster with the realization that she’s chosen me. Me to love. Me to protect. Me to obsess over. All I’ve done is simply exist, and that was enough to make her choose me as her next victim.

I feel my fucking soul leave my body, and maybe that was her plan all along — to take a piece of me with her that I can never get back.

I don’t fucking need antidepressants. I just need this girl between my legs at all hours of the day.

If she wants to die, I could help her. I could die with her. I could dance with her in the afterlife for all of eternity if only it meant I didn’t have to feel her loss.

If she is death, I am happy to take her hand and walk into the afterlife.