Nerves.

My nerves. My nerves are killing me, an pressuring me to kill everyone surrounding me. Well, Not everyone, some people are safe. I want to go ride my bike, stick my feet in the water at the park, and just talk. Today my memories of my past are eating me away,gnawing at my emptiness. Biting, crying, ad screaming for me to let them out, to tell someone. As I lay in bed last night, the silence of my surroundings, of my empty home forced me to delve into my mind and dredge up my past. My horrible, bloody, disgusting, suicidal, painful, homocidal past. It occurs to me that maybe I should find someone to talk to. Some one who won't judge me, or freak out at me. Someone who will keep me still when I rock backandforthbackandforthbackandforth. Somone who will talk to me, and let their voice drown out the screaming in my brain. There is so much to talk about. Theres so much talk. Talk about me and the things I have done. Theres too much hatred in their voices, and in their words. Do they see the pain I have locked up in me, the same pain that's pumping through my arteries and being forced in and out of my heart? Not the physical pain I've caused myself, the will never see that. Never. I will Never Show them That. I may sound pathetic, but there's no way I can do this on my own. The tickticktick of my internal clock is hurting my brain. It makes me twitch, makes me shake. My hearts steady thumpthumpthump keeps my clock ticktickticking. I have realised that if my heart were to stop thumping,my clock would stop ticking. Without a thumping heart, and without a ticking clock, there would be no hurting brain, no migraines. No twitching, and No shaking, no clinking, no clanking. The screaming and the pleading voices in my head would be eternally silenced.

The soft muffled thump of the knife being dropped behind my bed, out of sight would be never more. Only the soft, rythmic driopdripdrip of my blood hitting the floor, leaving a permanent stain. The scratchscratchscratch of the razorblade as it gouges out more of my flesh would be gone from my memory. The clinkclinkclink of the razorblade hitting the glass ashtray next to my bed on the bookshelf would not be heard again. the gentle wisps of smoke, bleeding through the air from the cigarette would be seen no more. No one would realize that the same patterns of smoke in the air were the same as the streams of blood on my skin. The bloody rag under my desk, once blue, now burgundy saturated with blood would dry up. My nerves would be steady, and My life would be silenced. I would be no more.