Things i like to think are behind me

Crying in the bathroom, crying in the parking lot, crying in the space under my bed. Slices, hundreds upon hundreds, soaking towels and sheets and the carpet. My dog licking thick blood off my feet when it finally dripped that far down. Fainting in the shower, at the busstops, not being able to let a boy I loved look at me because every inch was covered in red lines. Fading in and out of sleep, vodka for breakfast, not eating for days at a time. Trying to throw up, crying because i can't, cutting because i can't. Family members obliviously asking why I'm wearing sleeves in summer. The heat burning through the fabric, hiding the shame. Crying to music, to movies, to books. Crying and shaking while i write potential suicide letters, postponing my suicide because i couldn't get the letters right. Bumps on my skin, cuts in my chest, on my hands, my face. Broken razors, broken scissors, kitchen knives stored under my bed. Bandages, antibiotics, trips to the chemist. Sitting in the emergency room for hours because I want to be dead, my mothers face when she thinks i'm going to die, my mothers face when she first found out i wanted to die. Guilt. Bitterness. Gut wrenching fights with people i love, complete and utter desperation - breaking pens and paperclips in the glovebox so i can slice deep into my arm after a fight with my mother. Ripping my hair, skin, fingernails. Not leaving the house without a blade and some pills. Vodka in every water bottle. Alcohol with every meal. Sleeping for one hour, or for fifteen. No normality left in my life, nothing stable.