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She wakes up and is not sure what day it is.  She fell on the sofa because she was too afraid to sleep in the bedroom.  Her phone is on the small table next to the sofa and she checks it and sees the time is 3:50 in the morning. 

Please forgive me for failing over and over again.  Am I talking to Jesus or his mother?

I type worthless things up, I sign them, I sign them, I receive them back for corrections, I resubmit and then I start all over again.  How can this become anyone’s life? 

The morning is when she most considers killing herself.  It is an oddly comforting thought and sometimes she laughs when it crosses her mind.  There is a lovely orange container with a white cap and white label in the cupboard full of sleeping pills and there is always an unopened bottle of wine somewhere to be found.  She could put on a movie or album and turn the lights off and simply drift away.  There are also at least a couple different ways in which she could easily acquire a gun.  She thinks it would be great somehow for her brains to be splattered against the walls of her apartment and slowly rotting while the big frightening and disgusting world outside keeps moving along as though nothing happened.  That’s true though: it would be nothing, but a glorious nothing. 

She hears Scott’s voice in her head saying he’ll give her 21, 21, 21 and she touches herself and imagines hands around her throat and for a moment there is ecstasy and a

I never want to leave my room. 

Death death death I want to fucking die I want to jump of a building I want to blow my fucking brains out and when they find my body they’ll blood and shit and all the rotten fucking garbage that’s inside my head maybe next time I go driving a semi will hit me and my body will be crushed and my bones will shatter and my neck will snap or my head will just be chopped off maybe someone will feel like I do and just stick a fucking gun in my mouth

Wherever I go everyone is staring at me.  Why does anyone even bother talking to me?  I hate all of them and I don’t want to hear a single word from their mouths.  I see people on fire in front of me and I see babies that are doomed from the moment of their conception. 

It occurs to her – not for the very first time – she mostly prays in the morning and most often right in bed or in the shower.  She prays for relief and to be taken away from everything.  She imagines a bearded face with long hair and kind eyes and being embraced and kissed and told that everything would okay.  There is a room with candles and a bed with white sheets and what follows is tenderness and fulfillment and then blissful sleep.   

Driving to work she has powerful to slam on the gas pedal and drive her car into a well or steel pole or off a bridge.  She imagines unbuckling her seatbelt and how it would feel to be launched out of the vehicle, her head shattering in the windshield before striking the pavement.  Sometimes she laughs when imagining an oncoming truck, the driver of which is unable to break in time and large tires crush her head and chest and she is left as a grotesque red stain on the pavement. 

Why does my head hurt so much?  There are whores living inside my head and the endless fucking keeps me awake at nights.  There is no one who can save us. 

I’m just a little girl with grey eyes.