drown.

hand in mine, we'll drown ourselves in the night. dolly | 21 | she/her

[lesbowrites]

Children born of fire and flame know nothing of wickedness. They’re cleansed in the fire, born pure, untouched. We used to be those children.

As we grow and change, we are no longer the same. Those children are dead and we’ve flourished into adults, no longer pure, no longer untouched.

We’re still cleansed, born of heat and rage, but the flame has been snuffed out. We have no way to be that clean again. We’ll never be those children again. We’re dead and buried. Ashes in the wind.

[lesbowrites]

In the early morning light, I realize that I’m in the springtime of my life. Everything is right, flowers bloom and blossom, I am okay.

Generation nothing, something I’ve embodied, is turning into something. I refuse to be nothing. I will not stay in the same place, refusing to grow.

Spring is the time of new life. New opportunities lie ahead. I will grow, and I will blossom, the same way the flowers do. I deserve it after all I’ve been through.

[lesbowrites]

I walk through the valley of the shadow of death. This is my life, wandering through the valley, trying to avoid death. There’s no way around it, not really; one day it’ll consume me, whether I like it or not.

I’m not prepared for that day, but I don’t fear it. What’s the point in that, fearing something you can’t avoid? The best you can do is make yourself ready when the angels of death surround you.

Accept it, don’t fight it. Be ready. Don’t stray from the light. It’s warm and bright and welcoming, just the way you’ve always heard it was.

The orange-tinted light swallows you whole as flames surround you. Your friends are there, waiting for you. It’s what you’ve always imagined. Hell is yours for the taking.

[lesbowrites]

You wake up in the morning before sunrise. The house is quiet, static fills the air. You can’t go back to sleep no matter how hard you try, your arm stings from the drawn lines of red. Early commuters outside drive through the slush and snow, leaving behind tire tracks in what was once a perfect blanket of white.

Ten minutes later and the strong smell of coffee is circulating through the kitchen. It helps to wake you up, but some of that sleepiness from before still remains, enough to keep your eyes half-lidded and voice soft and breathy. You yawn, your eyes close and begin to water when you open them again.

As you sit on the back porch, warm coffee mug in hand, you think and think about all you’ve done. What good have you done? What bad have you done? You’re undeserving of anyone’s sympathy. How could anyone ever cry for you when you don’t feel bad about anything? These thoughts plague you as you sip your black coffee.

All you want to do is sleep. As the snow comes down, the chill in the air nipping at your skin, you finish your coffee and stare out at the sky as the sun begins to rise. Can the sun cleanse you of your sins? Can you ever be as pure as the white snow on the ground?

You go back inside, back to bed after placing your mug in the kitchen sink. All the way back to the bedroom you think about the ache in your arm, the one that was slashed again and again the night before. Despite the blood on the sheets, you crawl into bed and look up at the ceiling. You wonder how your blood would look if it tainted the pure snow in the yard. You taint everything you touch. You’re used to it by now.