Poetry guys :3 I’m making poems based around my OCs this one is Alexian’s POV (cw: themes of self destruction, implications of self harm, abandonment, implied unhealthy attachments, self loathing, and self deprecation)

Nighttime on a Thursday 

I lay in my bed, exhausted from the days events as my mom’s music blares from the living room speakers

The guitar resounds as a singer voices their thoughts in an intoxicating melody for the world to listen.

The song changes as I sit up in bed, the poppy mood created by a synth produces images of neon lights in my head.

A lonely yet comforting landscape.

Strange when loneliness, is the scariest concept to me.

I’m a lover at heart, always searching for a half to make me whole. 

However we both know that’s just a romanticized version of the truth.

You know that’s exactly what a parasite would say. 

And you’d be right.

The strings that keep my loved ones close are not mere thread, but rope.

That way our bonds won’t break.

For I need something only they can provide.

A self.

I constructed my self to be a perfect fit for each of them, out of love.

A self that could serve all their needs and make them smile whenever they need.

Yet I feel so empty. 

I never gained a self so now others must give me one.

I’m hallow, a shell.

Empty, a void.

Not even these shards can define me, even if put back together.

It’s quite the tragic existence.

I’m like a blurry photograph, a mere smudge on the paper.

I destroy what I have, for the sweet taste, the momentary joy, it’s so addictive, so captivating.

The rush I feel from that sweet honey, as I tear apart, and destroy what I have.

It’s like heroine, I really can’t get enough.

While the mess it leaves behind leaves a taste like stomach acid, this temporary relief is what I seek.

A pain junky to the end, I tear the ropes holding my connections just to feel something once they break.

Just to feel that high. 

Only to feel broken and empty afterwards.

I let the blood seep out of my skin, as relief washes over me yet again, only for fear to consume me as I remove my clothes that night.

The stinging in the shower is almost comforting, as the blood oozes from my wounds, dripping on the ground and flowing down the drain.

Yet fear returns as I step out, desperately covering the evidence of my sins.

I did it to relieve my fear.

When I feared someone would cut the rope instead of me.

So I carved my flesh, to get that high.

Yet now I fear the sight of my crime.

I finally cover myself and head off to my bed and close my eyes, dozing off in mere seconds.

I wake up the next day, I feel nothing.

I should feel happy for a Friday, but I feel nothing.

I need to feel something.

Anything.

I carve my skin and run red across paper, inciting emotion as I feel relieved.

Barely anyone talked to me.

I grew scared, remembering the secrets I told and the growing silence from that person.

Someone I love dearly.

I was preparing now.

For my early death at my own hands.

Knowing life wasn’t worth living without them.

Nothing was ever the same since they latched onto someone else.

Then I knew I was never the favorite.

I come home that day, bleeding again.

I just can’t get enough of that temporary relief.