I don’t know why it’s the back of my close door that’s my spot.
But it makes sense.
I lean against it sitting on the floor, excepting defeat.
Back pressed against it, so I have a few extra seconds to prepare if someone comes to check on me.
But I prepare anyhow.
Sitting down because I have no energy left to keep my legs from giving out soon.
I sit there and look at most of my belongings, trying to get just one momento to catch my eye and steer me elsewhere.
Point is, I can see why it’s the back of my closed door.
My childhood door was pink and had pictures from magazines cut out all over it.
I don’t even like pink so I don’t know why I chose it, but I don’t know why am sitting here, tear soaked, ready to make myself pay in blood.
My grown-up door is always plain.
Maybe wood are painted white.
There is always something that sane me put there to distract crazy me from the thing I’m about to do.
This time it’s a painting from an important friend.
Someone who I most likely disappointed somehow.
I always disappoint.
And that’s the thought that goes through my head as I push the blade down on my skin.
“Always disappoint. Always disappoint. Always disappoint. Always. Always. Always.”
The door is always the spot where I cut myself because I hate myself.
Always will be.