Clean Opening: Gospel

I'm not a child anymore, yet I feel like one. In my heart there dwells love and sadness for only one. He is the pain and the reason. The cure, the salvation. The infection, the disease. How can I ever begin to tell him when I'm too ashamed to look at myself in the mirror? The roar of the Tube muddles the roar of voices in my head, but it doesn't do anything to subdue the emotions that are ravaging my body.

The newly fresh cuts that snake up my arms and around my tattoos are unseen by those around me. Even if I wasn't wearing a jumper to conceal them, I doubt anyone would notice them. In a city as large as this, I am invisible. My life is meaningless and my heartbeat echoes through the street, unheard by all those around me. Their hearts beat in unison and my rhythm is slow and sloppy. The smell of hundreds of bodies on the platform is clogging my brain and my nervousness is beginning to creep in and fill the spaces between my ribs.

What am I doing here? Why am I just standing here? The people push past me and shove. Their lives are stitched into the fabrics of their clothes. They tell stories of romance, hardships, success, faith, holidays abroad, rape and school children's antics. And me? What do my clothes say? Black leggings with rips, a vest top stained with day old blood and bits of vomit. The pullover I have is nice, but worn with the travels and stories I've collected from all over the world. My crucifix hangs around my neck, sparkling into dull lights. The initial of my loved one is etched into a gold coin and means more to me than the metal it's made of. They hold so many memories and are rich in truths. The locket that holds his essence is resting against my breastbone and I can do is wish that it was his hand resting there, rather than his photo in a locket.

I've got four razor blades hidden in my sleeves. The metal, which is now warm, presses into my skin sending gentle pulsations through me. My rucksack on my back is stained with travels, lies and desire. It holds my deepest secrets and the keys to my undoing. Pictures that depict my inner strength, inner struggle and words that i hold so dear are etched into my skin; they both conceal my truths and expose me as the liar I know I am. The one I adore covers my body; his words, even his likeness is beautifully captured in my flesh. Ink covers the scars I long since believed I left behind, but in reality they are nothing more than concealed wounds. The infection that dwells within them is invading my body. It's spreading through me like a cancer.

My piercings glitter in the light, giving off the appearance that I have diamonds in my face and ears. The piercings beneath my clothing tug at the fabric and tingle with the anticipation of touch. I have metal through every possible surface, but I've never felt more organic. I'm screaming internally, although on the surface I'm perfectly calm. Children skip by, bankers and business traders make their way home and women's heels clack against the stone. When will this day end so I can close my tired eyes? I've been unable to speak, yet I've said everything a thousand times over. 

Wrappers from diet bars spill out of my rucksack and onto my lap. My secrets are in full view, yet they never know the extent to which I'll go. I swallow another pill and wash it down with copious amounts of diet cola. I once read that it could give you cancer...and here I am swilling it down as if there is nothing else that can quench my thirst. In many ways there isn't. My veins pulse with the excitement of death in every sip. 

The next train stops at the platform and I board, getting elbows in the chest and purses in the hips as I make my way through the traffic. I press myself into a corner, not wanting anyone to sit next to me. I don't know where I'm going. I only know I'm not content to sit in the Bank station where the smell of greed and money is all around me. The train picks up speed and I'm barreling underground London. The whole city above is s unaware of the whole other world below. A dwelling for the dead and lost souls alike. I fit in perfectly here. 

My old, stained, worn trainers press against the floor as the train begins to slow and my upper body jerks. I look at the headlines on the metro and see that it's National Suicide Prevention week. I inwardly chuckle to myself. It's interesting that the week for suicide prevention happens to be the week that I've contemplated it more seriously than I ever have. My knees are pressed to my chest and I'm hugging myself. Something is better than nothing. My wrist feels wet and so does my knee. I've leaked through my jumper. The cuts cannot keep it inside any longer and they've began to weep uncontrollably. I don't want anyone to see me, but at the same time I want all the attention focused on me. I begin to feel dizzy as the crimson river dribbles down my leg toward my crotch. 

He is no longer a little boy. I am no longer a little girl. My promises have stained my lips and life alike. My fears surround me and push me away from him, all the while his doubts begin to smother him. Each day, both he and I are slowly wasting away, without any true idea of each other. I wish he could see the light thatI see inside him. I wish he could break down his walls long enough to me to see within. All along I believed I would die in his arms, lost in his touch. And here I am, curled up on the Tube, my life slowly leaking out around me and there is nothing I can do to be with him now. All I can hope is that my darling isn't afraid when it's his time to go. Let him slip away peacefully and without suffering. I wish I could mutter with my last breath, "I love you, my dear." 

And when they find me, what will they say? Will they be disgusted at the mess my body is or will they feel sorrow? I want to be remembered, but I know that in time we are all forgotten, our bodies left to decay. Our memories fade into the sands of time and become nothing but clouds on the horizon. Some will call me stupid. Some will call me brave. In many ways, I'm both of those things. Perhaps I'm none of these things. There is no one to blame but myself for the mess I'm in. I'm the one who couldn't handle reality; unable to take responsibility and love me.

The coins in my pockets are weighing me down as someone begins to frantically shake me. My muscles are loose and sludge like. I am nothing more than a pile of meat, which will no doubt will be used for human consumption.

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