Help Me.

I give you every indication that I need help. I showed you by my words, body, and the worst aspect of my entire being, my rage. With each indication, I see your eyes averted the other way, and I’m wondering what more would it take for you to help me.

My words slashed your skin, leaving you with a bruise that not even the owner of its blade can heal. The owner will live with that but the truth will set you free.

All of this suffering originated from the thing that everyone desires. Love, but for me, it's more of a component, the help you receive from it. That was the portion of love where I desired the most, help. That's the portion I'm still yearning for from you. More pleading from you. I'm worried if I'll have to force you to help me. Would I then receive your help, as sad as it sounds? Will I then receive your complete love?

What more would it take? I ask myself each day. What more should I do to receive your help? Would it be when I tell you I hold a knife to my chest each day or trace words along my skin but mostly your name? What would it take? For me to deepen the knife closer to my heart, or instead of tracing apply more pressure ... What more would it take? I hope it’s not death because that friend is no longer a stranger to me. For now, I greet him with open arms hoping that he will help me.


Written by Athalia


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