A Window Into Self-Destruction

She swore she’d never do it again, but clutching the only thing that ever brought her any kind of release forced her to make an exception. Riffling through her father’s toolbox, she managed to find what she was looking for, and with every fallen screw came a stronger promise of salvation. Soon the pieces of her sister’s pencil sharpener came apart in fragments and she set aside everything but the blade. Silver. Like the accents of his eyes and the necklace he bought her that now resided in the nearest trash can. Sharp. Like the words rolling off his tongue hours earlier and the key change of the song they used to sing. She twirled it around in her fingers like it was a source of hope. Following the typical process, she watched as it triggered the release of the liquid pain she pent up inside her. Red. Like the color of the carefully established passion he snapped in his rough calloused hands like a toothpick. Like the color of the severed pieces of her beating heart. She didn’t care if it left her scars, she needed this. The echo of the last phrase he ever whispered into her fragile ear followed the lovely decrescendo of the malicious taunts and cackles always playing on repeat in her head until she heard nothing. Until she felt blissfully empty. Purging the blood that once carried his name throughout her body into each and every functioning organ, she was treating a sickness. This was recovery.


About savannahlyn

I write to articulate what my tongue cannot
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