Silent Whisper

            I’ve been planning to do it again, luckily it was Saturday and all of my roommates gone home. One thing I love every weekend is the absence of chit-chatting voices, busy typing keyboards and banging of closet doors. It’s not that I love to be alone but I prefer to be alone and depend on myself because it’s the only way that makes me feel secure. Nothing’s special to do for today but to be lost, so I entered the bathroom wherein the scent of detergent and melted bath soap filled the air. I gently close the door, sat and lean behind. I open the faucet near me in a way that only rapid drops of water flow with an empty bucket that offers itself to catch every drop. The noise it made is wise enough to break the silence that blend with the coldness of every tile of this close room. A kind of atmosphere I’m addicted to. I detached my phone and get the treasure that I miss to plow to my flesh. It's been a month the last time I did this.

             The scars I’ve made healed and here I am drawing another piece of art to myself. I hate it. I'm not amused by every masterpiece I’ve made but never ashamed of it. I hate it. It’s my only way to calm myself and distract my mind from reality and I hate it. It’s a way to penalize myself and remind my soul that I’m still alive and I hate doing this.

Blood drips from every line I’ve made while my tears mourn for it, I hate myself.

My razor blade begs to engrave more, crave deeper but I can no longer stand the pain.

The pail of water beside me overflowed commanding me to close the faucet and alarm me to get up but I spend time staring at the mess I’ve made while water crawls to the floor and wet my pants. My tears-kissed cheeks dried and my left arm stops unleashing blood. I feel sorry for myself.

I stared to the wall to release breath but I haven’t realized I whispered in the air.

Help.