𝓵𝓲𝓰𝓱𝓽 𝓼𝓵𝓮𝓮𝓹𝓮𝓻 ; 𝓱𝓮𝓪𝓿𝔂 𝓭𝓻𝓮𝓪𝓶𝓮𝓻

tw: blood and self harm mentions //

It takes a couple tries for my shitty lighter to catch, and as it does I hear the loud POP of my cheap cigarette lighting wrong. I feel a quick sear of hot ash land on my finger. I drop my smoke as I stick my burnt knuckle into my mouth. I watch as it rolls underneath the guardrail of the balcony and plummets the seven storeys to the ground below.

I simply blink at it and light another one. What's the point.

It's freezing outside. I haven't slept properly in days. The cacophony of the freeway makes it hard to hear my own thoughts - but, right now, that's a blessing.

Still, the moon is bright enough to count my breaths in the chilly air.

Inhale. Exhale.

I know I'm going to have to turn around soon. Confront the consequences of my frustrations and headaches.

But for now, I have me, my smoke, and the moon.

It tastes like a driveway and it burns like hell. I don't feel like I'm in my body. I don't know how long I've been sitting out here.

I wait until my fingers are blistered and throbbing. They toy with another butt in the carton for a moment, but I feel sick.

Inhale. Exhale.

The bite from the air mixes with the heaviness in my lungs. Not pleasant, but I can feel it.

Turn around.

I try to keep my eyes on the ground as I slink inside. It doesn't work. Immediately I'm confronted with reflective shards littering the ground, peppered with crimson.

Idiot.

I can see fragments of myself all over the floor, but I can't recognize the person. The material behind what used to be a mirror is slightly carved and bent, but you can tell the fist that made it was weak. Slow. Empty.

I grab one of the pieces and feel another warm, painful rush of blood down my palm and wrist. I should clean this all up. But I'm so tired.

I lay down among the glittering shards and light another cigarette. I can pretend it's alright for one more night.

Inhale. Exhale.