Habit Of My Dear Friend

I know what my best friend does when no ones around, and I know how life hurts her and how she lets her pain slip away. What she thinks makes it fade, and what traps she sets, thinking it is her escape, if only she knew it is a habit that has taken her away.

...

She slides it down her wrist, has she forgotten the promise she made the last time she continued this pattern. The blades' mark stings but soon becomes numb, leaving a wound and blood on the floor where her tears are all round, dripping down. Those deceitful words "Just one last time, then I'll quit for good!" It soon became a broken record, a movie with the repeat button stuck in. So hard she tries to fight it, but in the end she always gives in. It's a monster growing inside of her, controlling her, processing her, taking over her every move, her every thought, and her every wish. All the goals tumble as she bleeds and bleeds and bleeds. The shapes she cut into her arm, the dagger that made her feel wholer, or was it dizzier. And everyone thought her fears were just silly, well now they are all coming true, one by one. All she thinks about is this kind of drug, the shade it puts over her hurt. The addiction is carried on as she reopens the scars and aims for the veins. What is it like to die, she wonders. She dreams of it as if it is a goal, the only way out. But deep within her she knows this does not sooth her, it does not really calm her nerves, heal the holes inside, or characteristics her life, it is just another way to hide. A habit she prays to break, but somehow she takes out the blade every time her heart begins to ache. Like she's two faced, her life in two different ways placed. The knife circles her wrist, the life she never wished for. It's like the blood that drains from her gashes releases the despair from what she misses.
No one will know, they'll never find out. She whispers to herself. As she continues her daily task the possessive torment grins inside of her, an evil spirit that she wonders how it could have crawled inside of her.
Inside of her that demon speaks. A voice that pleads "You can't live without me." It cries and wines for that merciless knife. The demon demands the feel of that wrechered stab. Its strength increases the more her sops ring out. In her veins the blood is whispering to be set free.
When will this craving come to an end? Relapsed after relapse, the sensation won't end. When will she be able to live again? Under the surface it is always boiling, the compulsion, the need, will not fade away, she lives with it every second of each day. "When it will end!", she screams into the silence, no one's else voice fills the hollowness in return, and she pushes down harder, she no longer has control, two sides of her is expressed, the side that wants out, and the other face, that just wants to escape. The spear, scalpel, dagger sticks in deeper.
"Shoot", she screams as it pierced the vein too deeply. [The red pours out of her like paint all over the floor.] The miserable blood pours out of her like a never ending tracked train. Before she knows it the dizziness turns to unconsciousness, and the numbness turns to blindness, the escape turns to death.

...

I know what my best friend does when no ones watching.
I remember the day when she told me she almost died; and how she wished she had!