One hour, forty five minutes.
I stare at the clock and count the minutes I have left to listen to your heart, my ear pressed hard against your chest. Your fingers move slightly over my shoulder and I wonder if you're asleep.
I already miss you and I'm disgusted with myself again as tears poke the back of my eye lids.
I will always wonder what's wrong with me. The very core of these suicidal dreams is simply not being good enough. I'm the girl that cares too much, I'm the girl that will never care again. Caring equals pain. My immaturity is pathetic. I'm not sure how to not blame myself anymore, and blaming myself is just another reason to hate who I am.
When you tell me I'm the best friend anyone could ask for, I want to stab myself in the jugular. I'm not. I'm selfish and deeply in love with someone that will never feel the same. One track mind, narrow thoughts, nothing matters but my own pain. I can't stop asking
What's wrong with me? Why am I simply not good enough? You can never answer me.
I told you the other day
in the food court at the mall
that I'd choose slitting my wrists
if I were to do it.
One hour, twenty five minutes.
You hug me closer.