Sometimes when I lay awake in bed at night, I imagine stabbing myself in the chest. I know it wouldn’t be easy, that I’d have to break through skin and muscle and bone, but in the middle of the night it’s so hard to remember I’m not utterly hollow inside. It feels that way, like the blade would face no resistance, just plunge through soft flesh and right into the gaping cavern of my chest. It wouldn’t hurt. I wouldn’t even bleed. And even though some small part of me knows that isn’t true, in the dark of the night I still long to take that blade in my hands and slice myself open.  Even if it did hurt, even if I did bleed out, it would be worth it to feel something instead of this aching, mocking, consuming nothingness. I fear one of these nights I’ll…


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