Lifers

by K.C. Blume

I see the face of every girl that I’ve ever tried to love, but something inside of me has fallen short. I see every man who has muddied my skin with unwanted touches. Their fingerprints still linger to this day. I relive every road trip, every concert, every late night spent at shitty dive bars with my friends—any moment that has made the fight worth it this far. I’m tired, and I’m tired of being angry, so I let the pills lull me to sleep in a sea of black. Death is a dreamless, smothering warmth. It’s the most protected I’ve felt in years, and it’s all the love I’ve been searching for.

The headspace of a failed suicide attempt is more bleak than the moments before bringing the razor to your wrist or tying that noose around your neck. All you feel is despair because you know you weren’t supposed to feel anything by now.

“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.

It’s when the reality of the situation sets in that we all truly go crazy. These white-collar assholes don’t know the meaning of the word. They don’t know what it’s like to feel like a songbird locked in a cage, to feel like you’ve been picked up and dropped in the center of a labyrinth with walls that are quickly closing in.

The days are still cold, though. The warm ones are more like bursts of sunshine peeking through dark clouds, shining on my cheeks for just long enough to remind me that light exists.

How do you admit to the person you’re fucking that you’ve also been fucked against your will? It isn’t like listing off your body count. It’s vulnerable, more so than letting them see you naked. I haven’t always had an issue with vulnerability, only since that night. Now, it’s more taboo than any kink, but without the reward. It leaves my bones cold from the exposure and my skin sticky from the embarrassment.

“You’re not crazy, Blair.” She says, “Some of us here are, but not you. You’ve just got more emotions than your beautiful body can handle sometimes.”

I’ve never been with someone who’s sick before, never had to be the shoulder to lean on. I’m always the one take, take, taking. Always the fucking vampire sucking my partners dry.

This is the longest I’ve taken my meds in years. I’m not against them or anything; I know that they work. It’s just effort, isn’t it? You have to want to get better in order to get better, and maybe I’ve never really wanted it before now. I was content in my little hole. People think of depression as this cold, lonely place inside of your mind, but it isn’t always. Sometimes, it’s warm, like an electric blanket. It feels like sitting inside of a cottage in the woods, curled up next to a crackling fireplace with a purring cat sitting on your lap. It’s nice for a little while because it’s familiar.

I just wanted the pain to end.