2 am. I'm awake on Mamaw's kitchen floor with her best cutting knife in hand. I take the cold blade and slide it across my soft scarred skin. When I'm done, I take a look at my handiwork. I stare down at his little black heart semicolon blood spilling all over it. A tear runs down my cheek. I feel pathetic. All I want is him. I dial the first three digits. But I can't stand to let him see me weak. I click off. But I've convinced myself I can get better all on my own.
1 Comment
Hannah Irelan
4/22/2016 08:22:19 am
This one.
Reply
Leave a Reply. |
Ariel Wolfeself-proclaimed writersomewhat avid reader
creator of the sorts student Categories
All
|