death

I was supposed to die yesterday, just like I was supposed to die when I was sixteen. I didn't die then, and I didn't die yesterday.

The saddest part of me is on the bathroom floor. The mat is underneath her, the razor was supple against her skin, and now she's nothing. She was blood, she was as hard as breathing, and now she is nothing. She is lifeless on that grey mat and she will never live again.

She is still there. I fear if I go back, she'll pull the shower curtains down and scream at me for leaving her here. She'll break the mirror and shatter the lightbulbs and she'll kill me, too. I left her there on the floor, dead, haunted. She was nothing when she died, and she is nothing now; I made sure when I threw away each individual razor that I had peeled open her unmoving eyelids so that she could watch me become something. She said nothing, because she is nothing.

I left the saddest part of me to commit suicide on the bathroom floor alone. I open the door, and pick up the mat. I tried to soak off the bloodstains, but there was nothing there.