Drums and Blood

The drumbeat sounds like bullets fired from a gun held by someone who should never have it. 
It sounds like disappointment and regret, and all your childhood fears of never being perfect.
They pierce through you, and you feel the blood flow, but not from the bullet wounds in your head. 
The stream of red flows down your arm, and you watch as rivulets of your life source flows from the gash you've made on your arm and onto the purple bed sheet, making black dots in the process.
You watch in morbid fascination as you take your switch blade, and run it lightly across your arm again, watching the line turn white, then pink, and then finally red, and blood spurts from the wound like an underground spring.
The droplets of black turn into a puddle, and you know this will stain.
You ask yourself why you've done this. It's simple.
You felt like there was too much blood in your veins, pumping through your brain.
You could hear the whoosh and slush of it as it rushed through your skull, it made too much noise. 
It sounded too much like the world outside.
The red river has gotten thicker but flows slower now, more languidly, and you stare at it as your head finally lightens, and realize you need to sleep.
You don't know if the drumbeats will be able to wake you up this time.

All My Faults

I'm sorry if my sadness scares you, if it makes you angry and it makes me difficult to love.

I'm sorry if it's hard for you to see me lay it all out by your feet the darkness I use as a cloak and my tears that never cease.

I'm sorry if the rain clouds in my mind never seem to end, it's a perpetual battle for sunny days.

I'm sorry if I like the feeling of the rain so much, the way it drenches my emotions and weighs me down, it clouds my mind while the thunder and lightning flash behind my eyes. 

It's all I've ever known.

I'm sorry for the long moments of silence, if it makes you feel awkward, if it makes you worry. There's a war raging in my brain, it's been going on for eons.

Sometimes, I think I can hear the screams. 

I'm sorry if I don't smile as much as I used to, if my eyes are less alive. I just feel so dead inside. 

Sometimes, I wonder if there's still a soul stirring inside me, most days I don't feel my heart beating. 

I'm sorry if you don't want to hear what I have to say anymore, if my constant need for reassurance and a shoulder to cry on, for someone who understands annoys you.

I can't help it.

I have no one else.

I'm sorry.

Things I wish I could Tell My 20 Year Old Self

You kill your sadness in many different ways.

You go through phases of depression, when all that makes you feel the blood rushing in your veins is alcohol,  nicotine, actual blood gushing through self-inflicted wounds, or heart aches you bring upon yourself. You do it all just to make sure you're still alive, still kicking, still THERE.

You ask for the little highs, you jump off cliffs, chase the rivers, ride the waves, stand on the ledge of ten-story buildings, just to feel your heart pumping in your chest. You shatter yourself again and again, for all the wrong reasons, just to see a sliver of light in the darkness that has engulfed your world.

It's been so long since there was color, you think; so long since you saw the blue sky instead of the gray clouds. It's been so long since you've felt anything but cold, and despair, and the raging need to just get on with your life.

You struggle, of course, we all do, you fight valiantly through the haze and the debilitating fog. You try to get through with all your strength, because it's what we do, love. It's how we're made. You get up in the morning and it's a constant battle against the odds and the voices in your empty head. You walk through valleys of sneers and catcalls, and judging eyes, all telling you "it's all in your head", "get over it already", "stop being so weak", "move on". You nod your head and try to not let it add to the weight you've already been carrying your whole life.

See, they don't know, they've never been here before. They still see the world in color, in a spectrum you've already forgotten, they don't get that you can't just "get over it already". It's not an airport stop-over, it's the plane itself. It's how it is, and how you feel, and that's completely fine. Your feelings are valid, and your brokenness is beautiful.

Take a day, a month, a year, a decade, struggle and fight through it all, just don't stop. Keep going, there's a tomorrow out there somewhere, where you'll be able to see things through rose-colored glasses, and not through the mist anymore. You'll be alright, love, you'll be grand, you'll be ALIVE.