Third time’s a charm, right? Everything is all better, fixed and correct now; right? Nothing bad will happen anymore, I won’t have to come back – right? Oh, no that’s – that’s not how it works.
Oh how I wish that it did. How I never had to step another foot in a place like this, but no, I find myself in yet another hospital. Another week of my life lost and gone, never to come back; another set of doctors and nurses to poke and probe at me. Another round of pills, therapies and diagnosis to determine “what’s wrong” with me; another cold empty room, with pasty white walls and a bed that creaks with every immoral thought.
And again, I have no one to blame but myself. Who else made me place the blade with ripples from heaven to my skin and produce the liquid of sorrow? Who would make me take the pills of sweet delight to end my life of gum drops and candy canes?
I mean who could have talked a sensible girl like me into doing such a thing?
The voices of course.
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