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Array
(
[sid] => 27602
[catid] => 1
[aid] => mick
[title] => Midnight Carnival
[time] => 2003-11-21 17:30:12
[hometext] => when i feel suicidal, i like to write about it...
[bodytext] => Midnight Carnival I dread the night. Lying in bed, alone in my room, I am helpless as the Thorns Pierce my skull. My brain impaled, I twist and writhe, while Thoughts of Death course through my mind. My nerves are searing, and I know this. and this only: Life is only a tool with which Death uses to torture. Blood trickles down my face. Intermingled with acrid sweat, it burns my eyes. Still the Thoughts plague me. My face contorts. Eyes shut, I plead for sleep. But Sleep evades me. I can hear it laughing, laughing from within the minds of others. So slowly, I turn over. I see the Blade glistening in the moonlight, and lucid, I know how to silence these Thoughts. I reach, skeletal fingers outlined in the pale blue light, closing around my salient plaything. I brush my fingers softly over the scars on my arms, legs, wrists. Long, sleek and dark, they are remnants of lacerations, when once before, I quelled the Thoughts. The burn marks are there, too, and the puncture wounds, from unfinished cigarettes held until extinguished, lips quivering, and nails pounded deeper until, muscles skewered, the skin tore when I moved. I had Thoughts then, as well. Happy Thoughts. And I want more. Clasping knife in palm, I select a spot on my forearm, innocent and untouched. thorns imbedded deeply now, I apply pressure, cutting slowly and meticulously downwards. I can hear the dull ripping sound of skin sliced by unyielding blade. Pain spurts up my arm, and my hand trembles as I continue. The eight inch gash is deep, and clean. I watch in wonderment as warm, scarlet blood begins to pool into the long, white aperture. It flows down my arm, and over my fingers, before dripping to a crimson stain on the starched, white sheets. I feel the thorns begin to recede, but it is inadequate. Again, I slash, faster and harder this time, and again!! And now the blood flows freely. The thorns recede to nothingness, And I am happy. For as the sanguine fluid saturates my sheets, I am no longer haunted by thoughts of life, and Sleep concedes. [comments] => 3 [counter] => 183 [topic] => 13 [informant] => SensitiveSoAbused [notes] => [ihome] => 0 [alanguage] => english [acomm] => 0 [haspoll] => 0 [pollID] => 0 [score] => 5 [ratings] => 1 [editpoem] => 1 [associated] => [topicname] => DarkPoetry )
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