is it too late to ask you to kill me?
There is an itch in the back of my head. There is a nausea in my veins that will not stop welling, that will not start calming. Water crashes over my head, cascading, pooling in collarbones. It is warm but it is not enough.
There is an itch in the back of my head and it is spreading through my veins, like a poisonous substance. I can feel its leaded weight in my lungs, in my heart, in my head when I have to get up in the morning.
Deprive yourself of sleep while all the while wishing for nothing more than to curl up under the covers forever. Words seem easy to say when it is like this - it is not that they spill out of my mouth without me intending them to, it is not that I am unaware of the hurt they could cause. It is just that I want to be helped, I want to be helped and I am too tired to box that up. The itch spills out of my mouth and stains the sheets, stains the front of my sweater, and it is still not quelled. The itch spills out of my mouth and I can see you are trying to make it better, but all you do is wipe it away and place your hand over my lips, like it'll help keep it in. It is still there. It is hidden from you. It is spilling through your fingers and I think we are both closing our eyes.
I am not a desperate person. I am not. I am patient, I am willing to wait. Even with this spilling over like this, I am willing to wait for it to get better.
There is an itch in the back of my head and my lungs and my heart and my arms, and nothing can reach it. There is nothing that can reach it, not sleep, not hot showers, not blades and not nails. Actions taken, day after day after day after day after day and i do not think it will ever get better. I do not think it will ever go away.