Alone again.
He wasn't sure what was worse.
Being on his own with them screaming at him, alone with the tempting silver blades in his cabinet. alone with the pills. alone with his aching stomach begging for nourishment. alone with his mind flooding with warped words and bleeding walls. alone with water on the floor, rising above his head, or with the boy he would never be enough for.
Curled up against the wall, a small boy shrinking into himself to make himself smaller, not wanting to take up more space, wanting to be unnoticed even when there was no one there to call out his flaws, no one except himself.
Crying.
He was crying?
He hadn't known.
Not until he felt something warm trickling down his cheeks and slipping around his jaw, dampening the neckline of his baggy sweater, dulling blue where stars used to be, and where sunlight used to paint in shimmering golden hues.
The honey was draining from his skin like color from the rest of the world.
And his mocha eyes were washing out, and fading.
He was too young for his eyes to look like that.
And he was too sweet for the bitter air rattling in his broken lungs.
But he didn't know how to save himself. He didn't know how to sew back together his loose seams, didn't know how to tell himself that he didn't deserve this.
So he cried alone, waiting for a boy who would never see him as good enough.