Ashes

Sun light is vaguely visible through the drapes, painting circles across the ashen carpet. I squeeze the comforter tightly,
praying for darkness once again. Images from the night before flood through my mind, tainting it with visions of death and
darkness. I numbly reach around for my arms to hug myself before the cold does it for me. Pressing my lips together in shame,
I slowly sit up. My feet barely reach the ground, but they don't want to. It's as if thorns and salt cover the surface,
begging it's victim on for a taste of sweet revenge in it's destruction. Everything is wrong. Shivers rock my body slowly,
as if on a meter. I don't want to be here. I don't want to be anywhere. My room smells like smoke and ash and tears. My
mouth is dry and salty. I lick my lips twice. Dry blood is smeared across my arms. I turn around. Sure enough, there are
stains on my sheets. Rings from coffee for the past two weeks stain my night stain as well as a trail of innocence lost
along with it's little helper. I cringe inwardly, yearning for things to be over. Night after night, I fall asleep to the
same pattern. Night after night, I cry myself to sleep crying for death to cary me on it's midnight wings far away from
people who hurt me. And night after night, I lash out on myself. I lash and lash because it's what I deserve. I lash
because I am the reason why I am a mess. I am the reason why you're ruined. I am the reason for everything. I am a large
chunk cut of space. My feet take up more than a foot's width of worth. My arms dangle in oxygen used for animals and trees.
And I'm cold. I'm so cold. My breath is frigid, encasing everyone around me in cut out boulders of glass. I shape them.
I carve into their brains and cut into their bodies. I feed on their souls and break them in two. I am the cause to all
your problems.
I push myself out of bed. I live alone. A small one bedroom apartment encases me in darkness, closing me away from the world.
I'm free to roam in peace, destroying life in the process. Bills stack the countertops, cluttering the small kitchen. Ash
is sprinkled half-hazardly everything I step. Burns smear the carpet in angry lines. I scuff my big toe on one, sliding past
the bathroom.
I barely make it before I'm pushing last night out of me. Before I make it to the toilet, it's on the floor, and I'm curled
over. My stomach is churning violently, missing regular meals. It was never taught to hate itself. Organs can be conditioned
so easily.