Those pretty pictures

The darkness doesn't disguise my pretty pictures,

but blinds me while I draw on my flesh canvas.

My earphones don't drown out my purging

yet the windows that I forgot to shut, stay open,

as the neighbours hear me hurl

My Harod's bears muffle the sobbing, although

 my walls aren't soundproof by a long shot.

I only close the door, so I can prepare myself for when company arrives

unexpected. unwanted.

just like the violent screams that echo downstairs

or the stresses that I have no choice but to face on a daily basis.

How about the 'sustainable life'; the 'mapped out career path'

or the death of loved ones...

Why would anyone want this?

Are we not all hopelessly devoted to looking for that harmless way out?

To juxtapose the harm I put myself through everyday?

Its a struggle to fight the urge to spend my allowance on an overdose of cuprofen, and by the packaging, a posted note lying on the table, saying 'And in that moment... i swear we were infinite'

Hoping to God my mother would have finished the God damn book by then.

'No' I'll lie. 'I've never even thought about something like that... I wouldn't even know how I'd do it'