Sequel: The Sickening. ›
The Thickening.
Thickening.
All the dull little pens tumbled on into the chrome bin, stained in something dark I was getting tired of seeing.
I told myself I wouldn't do it.
I tell myself a lot of things now, that fail to reach the understanding of others...not because they cannot begin to even understand the motivation for my actions, but because they are the motivation for my actions. They are the sickening, the allegations that drive me down to such levels of atrocity, on the backs of gritty dirt. They, the they, it was always they who made me want to do this, but it was always the me that actually went through with this, pushing the cowardice of my puny existence to the final peak of insanity. And so today, I have decided to take it even further down, to unattainable depths.
My grey-cotton sleeves roll up, revealing all sorts of darkened scars, all sorts of shitty shapes and sizes. I let the silver scratch down them in a trail of scarlet, matching in two long lines on hideous lesioned arms. Not enough. I lick the sharpened metal, biting down with my tongue, and that gives me the little shove I need. Harder and harder I crush down, and part of my tasting buds fall down to the floor in a pink, wet slab. My screams echo across the bathroom walls, and I muffle them quickly with a blob of tissue, continuing at work. One, two, three, four nicks stretch into five as I violently jab the butcher knife into bare limbs, hitting solid bone, sending unbearable waves of pain down every nerve in every impossible place. The tissue in my mouth slides down my throat...cold and soggy, clogging up in regurgitated spittle running in bloodied drips down the side of my cheek. It still isn't enough, even after everything is all numb, and I drive the blade straight down again and again and again into the pits of my elbows, sending my fresh liquids spewing across the mirror...
As hard as I motherfucking can.
Blood drains down the sink with my obliterated flesh and bone, forever thickening...
I told myself I wouldn't do it.
I tell myself a lot of things now, that fail to reach the understanding of others...not because they cannot begin to even understand the motivation for my actions, but because they are the motivation for my actions. They are the sickening, the allegations that drive me down to such levels of atrocity, on the backs of gritty dirt. They, the they, it was always they who made me want to do this, but it was always the me that actually went through with this, pushing the cowardice of my puny existence to the final peak of insanity. And so today, I have decided to take it even further down, to unattainable depths.
My grey-cotton sleeves roll up, revealing all sorts of darkened scars, all sorts of shitty shapes and sizes. I let the silver scratch down them in a trail of scarlet, matching in two long lines on hideous lesioned arms. Not enough. I lick the sharpened metal, biting down with my tongue, and that gives me the little shove I need. Harder and harder I crush down, and part of my tasting buds fall down to the floor in a pink, wet slab. My screams echo across the bathroom walls, and I muffle them quickly with a blob of tissue, continuing at work. One, two, three, four nicks stretch into five as I violently jab the butcher knife into bare limbs, hitting solid bone, sending unbearable waves of pain down every nerve in every impossible place. The tissue in my mouth slides down my throat...cold and soggy, clogging up in regurgitated spittle running in bloodied drips down the side of my cheek. It still isn't enough, even after everything is all numb, and I drive the blade straight down again and again and again into the pits of my elbows, sending my fresh liquids spewing across the mirror...
As hard as I motherfucking can.
Blood drains down the sink with my obliterated flesh and bone, forever thickening...