It won't go away.
It's stalking me.
I cover my eyes with my hands
Then shut them tight
And the urge appears on the backs of my eyelids.
Light
Colours
Mostly red.
Pen in hand, I write
To try to force it out through the ink
Drawing shapes that form letters
That form words:
Help.
Cry.
Pain.
It won't leave.
The pen is no longer an instrument for writing
But for hurting.
It's tip is sharp yet dull.
I write on my skin.
Blue.
I close my fist
And my skin turns white.
Four fingers and one thumb.
Powerful.
I strike once at the white wall.
I strike twice at the whiteness of my stomach.
I lose my breath for a second,
Hoping that the urge has left through my open mouth,
But it has not.
It is laughing at me.
I turn up my music.
Angry music.
I cry out
Muffled in a pillow
My ears are beating in time
With the rhythm.
Maybe the urge is deaf,
Because it doesn't leave
And my ears can no longer bear
The pounding.
It overwhelms me.
It clouds my judgement.
I am smiling, yes,
But only because I don't want you to ask
What I'm thinking.
Because I'm thinking
That the urge is taking over,
That I can't fight it any longer,
And that I might as well give in,
Because it won't go away
And nothing else seems to work.
