You'll have to love me when I'm gone

I could write something that's packed with fiction. I could make up my own reality about last night. I could lie my face off to this whole blog. I could submit to the writer in me and tell you that the romance is possible, was possible. I could tell you that the romance happened. I could tell you that we went back to his and fell into each others arms. I could tell you that he told me he loved me and we spent the whole night talking about it.

It didn't happen.

To say it was anti-climactic would be an understatement. Tragically. Pathetically. I thought in one small moment everything was clicking into place - but then, typically, it didn't. The pieces just lay jagged and ringing. We were sat together, his head on mine, just leaning. He picked up his phone and slowly typed 'I love u', which would have been fine if he had left it there.

The whole text?
'I love u dave :)'

Which he promptly sent to his best friend.
Yeah, anti-climactic.

Oh well. Even before that I was avoiding mirrors, photographs, anything that screams the horrible truth. I can only take myself in quick glances. A reflection in a car door as I open it is about as much as I can take. I cannot analyse myself. I constantly feel disgusted.

See, I could have lied my face off. Like I've been doing for the past few months. I coud LOL and LMAO and tell you a bunch of irrelavant things. I could haved faked it.

I hope you appreciate that I didn't.

I've been holding onto the bottom of this rope for far too long. I'm sick of the burn, I'm sick of the constant sliding back down; two steps ahead followed by two back. I entertain horrible fantasies. I would love to bathe in bleach. I would love to invest in razors, salt, ice. Anything that would override the hurt and the hating. I would love to punish myself so I don't feel like this anymore. When you're in pain you kind of feel cleansed. When something is throbbing, gaping, oozing, you don't think about wether there is a piece of work in for the next day or what lesson you have. You think about pressing down on it and intensiftying the pain, you think about buying the bandages and the antiseptic and cleaning yourself up. I fantasise about razor blades and cutting myself to the fat. The problem is that they stay as fantasies. They rot in my head. They ooze out of me. I feel that someone could smell the self pity, the urge to hurt or to ruin things for myself.

Yes. I could go and get help. I could tell someone how vividly I see myself dying. How intricately I have planned my suicide. But what would they do? Hand me the tools with which I could bring about my own demise? Once you open the floodgates everything becomes a weapon of mass destruction. I could glue my throat shut with superglue - in my head I have suffocated like this over and over again. I could leap, headfirst, out of my bedroom window and hope to hit the concrete rather than the grass.

And I could cut. Oh boy, could I cut. I could bleed to death on the bathroom floor quicker than someone could save me.

Oh, these fantasies are always there. When I smile, in my head I am suffocating. When I laugh there is an imaginary noose around my neck. When I sleep I hope that I won't wake up.

Oh, to feel good again. To feel human.