Slipping

I’m slipping back into depression. For the first time in months I deliberately took a razor to skin and edged it in. The familiar slice and twinge offered a precious moment free of the past that haunts me. It felt so GOOD. So tremendously good. My wrist is aching for a gash right now, but I can’t. My wrists are clean. Under my clothes isn’t so pure. It’s the only thing that offers freedom from pain, and I can only imagine that deeper cuts and a tub of warm water would offer all the more bliss. I can’t. I can’t kill myself, can’t and won’t. I WANT to, not all the time, but the total desire washes over me in a title wave of emotions I can’t surface from. I’m drowning, slowly. Sinking and watching the bubbles float above me as the air leaves my mouth. As the darkness engulfs me, I can still see my friends breathing. It hurts. No one noticed that my smiles don’t quiet reach my eyes so often. I hardly speak when I’m not around my friends. I can go hours and not utter a word. I just sit and listen, listen for something that will take my mind from what causes me pain. I can’t confront this hovering knife hanging by a rope. Will rope turn to threads?
My stomach always has a dull ache because my head is filled with roaring white noise and the voice of regret.
I can feel the zeal for life slipping away, and all I can do is smile for the audience.