It starts in my chest. I keep it there. What’s the point of the tears? Wasted mascara.
In reality, you’re a waste of space to them.
If you smile, they’re mad. If you cry, they’re mad. Should I stop breathing? Adrenaline rush? Or an upward cut? Will I bleed glitter?
It doesn’t matter. They will still be salty, like the tear rolling down my cheek before I left a haunting pool of glitter.
I didn’t even taste him. But I know what the last tear tasted like.
Who has watched 13 Reasons Why? Crazy, huh?
I bet when my red glitter is flowing out my upward-cut wrist you will take mental health a little more seriously.
But who am I? I’m dead, cold-hearted. My blood on the floor was cold by the time I was discovered.
Was it glitter? Did it sparkle?
Oh, it was blood? Just like the movies? Real life? Who was A?
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