Note: I did, in fact, eat, despite the ending of this. Also - extremely dark topic, _do not read_ if you don’t feel comfortable. _PLEASE READ TW._

TW: Sh, brief mention of passive su!c!de, mention of su!c!de/homicide?? (not sure how to categorize it in the context)

“I don’t care!”

“_You never do!_”

Silence.

“I don’t care abt random noises. Stop that & stop talking out loud! Just stop!!”

The rage builds up inside me. 12 years of pain, 7 years of ignorance, & 3 non-consecutive years of not caring if I was here or not.

I make a noise involuntarily; my brain’s instinct to react to anything & everything.

“I’m going to tape your mouth shut!”

I bang the cabinet door closed over my response. “Why don’t you tape my nose, too, while you’re at it?!” A dare. A dare she can’t hear. A dare she’ll ignore until she hears it loud & clear, a sign that I’m not her “perfect, okay” daughter, a sign that there’s something mentally not right. A sign that she’ll take & threaten in my face to send me away. Bc that’s who she is.

She is the reason my mind is on one thing & one thing only rn. A knife. I can’t bring myself to actually bleed, though I want to, & I catch myself on the way to unconsciously walking towards the block of knives in the kitchen. I pause. Is this what I really want? Change trajectory. Butter knives. They hurt, but my skin won’t necessarily break, even if I want it to now.

Therapy. I need therapy badly. But I’m not going to get that. So butter knives it is. I run the incredibly dull edge against my wrist, over & over & over again but there’s only an imprint, no cut. Do I want to bleed? I can always use a flare to draw red over my skin. There’s barely anything there. It feels raw, but I know it’s not. My back is turned, terrified someone will walk in, though a part of me really doesn’t care.

I know this is sh, but is it? If picking your skin is technically considered sh, this… I don’t know. I can’t think rn.

I don’t care abt lunch rn. I’ll starve.