I have written and now I am empty

**********I have written and now i am empty**********

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

CW: ALLUSIONS/MENTIONS OF SELF HARM. SLIGHT GORE.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

I want to ask for a cup of tea, I have not done so for a while, but I have no words.
I do not want to talk.
I feel ashamed of myself.
I want to tear at my throat. For my false nails to dig into my flesh, crescent marks, and I will pull and tear chunks and strings. Tugging at them like laffy taffy. There would be the bones in my throat. Now exposed. The inside would be bared. The muscle. And I would tug at that too.
It would be a great pain but it would be good.
My body is weighed by rocks; gravity pulls at me. A force that weighs me down, makes my mind fuzzy, my eyes droopy.
<i>He calls for me, my tea is ready. I want to scream at him. I feel aggressive. I want to stomp, fracture my ankle, break it.
I pick the cup up off the table. White, clean new, golden. He asks if I’m going to bed and I say no, trip up, get mad at myself, say, I’m on the computer. Barely. I feel so aggressive. Shouldn't there be a metaphor for that. i hate him.
I want to gouge my eyes out. </i>
I peer at the book I'm reading, take in the cover. No glance at the cover. I feel like shit. I feel like my brain is being picked at yet I choose grief. Is it masochism. I am masochistic. Shouldn't it only make me feel worse?
Somehow I have read sixty pages. I noticed I had read ten chapters then it was twenty.
I was a page in and trying not to cry. It is hard to tell someone why you are crying.
It hurts to cry.
I think of it. <i>Hold still.</i> I am still. All my body can be, is still.
I am living yet i feel as if my body is still.
<i>I take in the order of the lines. One after another. No breaks. Flowing. So straight it feels weird. I don’t think I've ever seen something so straight. It feels wrong. I hadn’t realised I was writing like this. It looks cool. Artsy. Aesthetic. I will have to change it when iI read through. Edit it. pretension doesn’t make for meaning. My work cannot be pretentious. <.i>
I think back to some time ago, while I was reading my book. The conversation which took place. I overhear him mentioning how we sorted out the clothes, and her voice, stern, telling off and oh how god i hate it, i want to scream at her, i want to hurt her. I hear her say well you shouldn't miss school over silly things like that or something similar and i want to scream at her. It isnt that. She cant understand, i want to show her her place. She cannot understand.
I feel insane.
There must be something wrong with me.
I am a failure.
I am a stranger, unwanted here.
I want to hide away. To become a hermit.
<i>I feel along my arms. Thumb pressing along the middle where a vain lives i think. It feels nice. The pressure. My nail skim my flesh. I think that i should make it deeper. Of how i could make it deeper. Last more. To feel which i desire. My tongue feels wet. My hand bends back, vain straining with the muscle.</i>