"I-I-I," dad tried to plead his story yet I paused him; "dad, save it." I walked out of the room, in disbelief. I trembled to the floor. Sitting there, crying.
Happy tears? Sad, angry tears?
I want to throw a cigarette at my mom like she did to me.
Throw a candle instead. A lit one. Burn her and this house down. Let her and so-called "dad" burn down also.
Let me watch all of the agony turn away and run in there a little bit afterwards. See the pain. Feel the pain. Feel it all disappear yet power my bones. Finally.
----
It's been a few days since the incident and since I've ate.
I can see my veins. I see blur in my presence. I can touch my veins through my cuts and bruises and skinny, skinny slit skin. The thin paleness that's dripping in dehydration.
I blink yet I stare. Slow blinks that just want to be closed for a while. Forever.
Who am I? What have I done?
Well, what haven't I done?
Am I the bitter antibiotics? or am I the gasoline leading you home to a flame. A flame leading you home. Red heat. Rusty smell that triggers memory. Nostalgia breaths and pouring guilt. You feel yourself in those flames. And you hear the faint screams in the distant of your brain.
"I've caused this pain," you say to yourself as you breathe one last breath and head off to sleep again. Oh look tomorrow will be another day of weakness and no one there to help. Not even yourself. My last tear goes on the pillow as I shut my eyes. As I dream of flames again and again.