To Cut
You slam your car door behind you, letting the prickly tears stream down your face, letting your sobs be audible for once, letting yourself fall apart.
What was it with Tony?
Why the fuck did he care so much?
You can't -- you don't want him to care, you need him away -- why is he so close.
You bang your palms against your steering wheel, choking out messy, angry sobs.
Why were you like this? Why were you so fucked up? Why couldn't you just be okay?
You wanted to scream, let everybody know, let nobody know, let everything happen, let nothing happen. You wanted everything in the world and nothing.
You were tired -- you were exhausted and screaming out maddening sobs, collapsing against the wheel and burying your face in your arms.
What was there to do?
You can't be here.
And if you can't be here, you can't be anywhere.
There was nowhere to be and everywhere to be.
You wanted to cut.
That was everything now.
To cut.
Maybe if you'd just do that. Maybe you'd cut your throat, slit your thighs until all the blood is bled, drain your heart, drown your heart in your thigh's blood. Maybe you'd take your heart out, cut it up in tiny pieces, put it back in. Maybe.
Maybe you should just end it now. Right now. Stop all this. Maybe you should drive your car into the lake, fill your lungs with meaning, fill your body with use.
Maybe cutting yourself off from everything would have more benefits than you could ever provide.