Wishing all of you who are participating the best of luck! Maybe some of that luck will rub off on me too...
Something's WrongI don't cut myself anymore. I haven't since last summer, when the sun was so blindingly bright it perforated through my curtains and stained my eyes.Something's Wrong by Betnii
The cuts were on one forearm, deep and red and angry, all the way from elbow to wrist. I'd sometimes leave the flesh exposed, and watched as curious eyes flickered from my face to arm as we spoke. No one ever asked.
When the arm was too sore to slice with scissors I'd scrape away at the paint and plaster on my walls. I'd carve deep shapes and lines like limbs from a tree, reaching out over my head and clutching at the window.
The walls are painted deep purple now. I sat for hours and filled in the crevices before the first coat could be applied. There are some that wouldn't cover, but they are hidden by my newer, darker curtains that block out the light.
My right arm remains mottled, maybe fifty or so tiny lines streaking horizontally along the curvature of the skin. There is a burn mark on the opposing side, an inch long and light brown:
Glorious MadnessI won't be coming home tonight.Glorious Madness by Betnii
I'm not leaving you, or running away, or turning my back on us. I'm dying.
I've been dying on the inside for years; decomposing inwardly whilst remaining perfect from afar. I cannot stand it any longer: the outer shell is empty and cracked and now too must crumble.
This disease that plagues me, an unidentifiable hell, has beaten me. And though I promised you I would never shy away, that I would never give up, I am admitting defeat. I am allowing the all-consuming fear and self loathing to spread over me. I am succumbing to this glorious madness.
My mind has warped and all I see is twisted fiction. I despise it and am petrified of it, and have grown evermore paranoid. The world has turned on me and I have fought back, I battled with the last of the strength I had within me: but I have lost.
It was never my intention to pull you into these depths with me. I longed to leave you, to make the jump myself, but you insisted. I hate myself for the sadness I have
YellowMy parents bought a little two-bedroom house when they first got married. It was run down, falling apart, but most importantly: cheap.Yellow by Betnii
Two years later, my mother fell pregnant with me. She immediately abandoned her job for some plaster and paint and set about decorating the untouched spare room. She splashed pastel yellow across the walls, replaced the dingy carpet and kitted out the room with furniture.
Sixteen years after my birth, and the yellow paint is flaking off the walls revealing the kiwi green beneath. I can peel back the corners of the carpet to reveal the worn underlay and half rotten floorboards. I can examine the fringe of my cream curtains where the bright yellow hasn't been bleached by the sun. The room is, more or less, unchanged. It has merely lost its sheen, much like the inhabitant of it.
I remained an only child; filling my days with quiet solitary games and elaborate stories whispered under my breath. My isolation only increased as I grew too big for the room that