She woke up seeing she was still at her friends house, on the ground where she had stepped out to cry last night, but ended up falling asleep drunk.

Her head pounded with the morning hangover she cursed herself for the excessive alcohol she forced down her throat last night.

She looked around and saw people were passed out around her, all subconsciously getting over their drunk or high.

Last night was crazy. The party was out of control, but she was glad to have been able to forget her troubles that night, even if her friend invited someone she can't forget.

A guy's abdomen was her pillow. A girl missing her top, but not her bra was using her leg as a pillow.

She then sat up, carefully moving the girl's head to the ground before getting up and stumbling into the house, seeing more drunk people passed out.

She pulled on her jacket from the coat hanger and left the house, letting the misty morning air chill her a little and woke her up a bit.

She reached into her pocket and pulled out her sunglasses, putting them on as she made her way to her home 4 blocks away.

It was an early Saturday morning so it was quiet.

She arrived to her apartment building and enters the elevator, pressing on button #4.

The elevator soon arrives to her floor and she walks to her apartment building, Apartment 4-C.

She walks in, stumbling into the kitchen, grabbing some water and a bottle of Tylenol.

She takes 3 pills to soothe her throbbing headache before heading deciding to rest on the couch and think.

She laid back on the old couch, her shirt slightly riding up and exposing her pierced navel.

She then remembered her past of abuse and drugs. Now she's just used to drowning her memories and sorrow in alcohol and antidepressants.

She raised her thin arm up and observed the scars and cuts that littered her arms.

She hates the pain. She hates the pain of the razor kissing her pale ivory skin, releasing the red liquid that is supposed to stay in her body to keep her alive.

But, why does she do it, you ask?

Simple answer many have answered.

The poor soul believes her being is worthless and not necessary, which is why she is ignored even by her family. Its been years since they called to ask how her pathetic life is.

No true friends. No true love. No true happiness.

Deep down, she didn't want the blood to pump her damaged heart.

She never tells anyone how she feels, only because she's afraid of the reaction, but not that they care anyway.

She sighs and forces her still exhausted body up from the dingy couch, and drudges towards the wine cabinet, grabbing what she wanted.

She then makes her way to her bathroom with her dear ol' friend, Johnnie Walker, in hand.

She shuts the door and then leans against it, taking off her jacket before unscrewing the bottle and tossing the cap aside.

She down the amber nectar and let's it burn her throat as she gulps a few times before stopping to breathe. She managed almost half the bottle before she felt fuzzy.

Good. She was drunk.

She then grabs her lucky blade from the sink, and brings it to her scarred arm, slicing across.

A slight wince and a whimper from her throat.

Damn. More alcohol.

She grabs the bottle and brings the tip to her thin rosy lips, slightly smeared with make up just like her empty blue eyes.

She down more brandy, leaving it almost empty enough for about 4 more gulps.

She grabs the shiny silver again after waiting a while, and slices again.

Good. Not even a little flinch.

She sighs and smiles in relief, then slices a little deeper again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

And again.

Soon enough, she lost count as lacerations decorated her arms.

She reaches into her jacket, pulling out her Marlboro and lighter, taking out one stick of cancer from the pack and placing it gently between her lips.

She fumbles with the trigger of the lighter before suddenly the tiny flame sparks to life and she lingers it under the end of the cigarette that isn't in her mouth, and she inhales.

She extinguished the flame, tossing the lighter to the side before forcing the door open, pulling the death stick from her lips,and blowing smoke out.

She looked down at her shirt before losing it, then grabbing the razor after having an idea.

She pressed the tip of the blade on her abdomen, away from her hip and navel piercings, and slid it slowly across.

She gasped in relief as blood slowly and not excessively dripped to the white bathroom tile.

She laid back against the tile and her phone suddenly rang, but she neglected the screaming ringtone just it like her "friends" neglected her, pretended like she was never even born.

Even if they did care, why would they bother? She's nothing so important.

Confusing, right? It even confuses her how it both hurts her that she's neglected, yet she doesn't mind. That's why she destroys herself, so she would stop thinking mad.

If one person actually cared, it would break their heart to see someone so beautiful think she's not worth even a regular person's time.

The phone suddenly went silent, but then she hears a small beep signalling she had a voicemail.

Curious, she listens to it.

"Belle? Its Drew. Umm, you just left the party, and ugh... I don't know, I'll be on my way to your place to check up on you. I was awake before you, but I don't think your hangover let you notice. You didn't look okay, and I got worried. Anyway, I'll just stop by later to see how you're doing. That party was pretty crazy. Where did you end up?? Not even Shannon knew. Anyway, just... Call me when you can. I'll be there in an few minutes, depending on traffic."

Drew. That man.

She loved him, but forever in his eyes will she only be a friend, if not, an acquaintance.

He's one of the many people who ignores her the most, doesn't appreciate her, even if she's always there to mend his broken hearts when a bitch breaks it.

She's the one always there when he's drunk and needs to find his way home, or when he needs someone to vent out to.

That man is the main reason she takes mixes of vodka and rum in order to not feel the numb pain she inflicts on herself and then wakes up to only feel the caustic yet dull after feeling.

She takes the whiskey, bringing it to her lips and swallowing one final gulp, letting it burn her throat before putting it down for a second and taking a deep breath, and then a long drag from her cancer stick.

She blows the smoke into the warm air, before lifting her bloody wrist and smashes the lit end of her cigarette into a cut.

She gasps at the dull pain, meaning the alcohol must be slightly wearing off, and she needed to cloud her mind again soon.

She tosses the extinguished stick aside before taking the bottle and tipping it upside down, spilling the golden venom onto the cuts.

It burned and she gasps, but it burns in a good way.

"Belle?!" I hear someone call out, but she's way too in her numb wonderland to care.

"Oh my god, Belle!!!" someone shouted, then she felt hands pick her up and hold her close.

Past the cloud of fuzz, she can hear a heartbeat at her ear.

She then felt something wrap around her arms and on her stomach before she looked up behind the blur and recognizes the darling brown eyes, the eyes that are like a drug to her, deadly but addicting.

He wasn't lying.

"Belle.... Why??" His soothing deep voice said, angst clouding it as staring down at the girl with worry, moving her brunette hair our of her empty hazed eyes.

She sighed and looked up at him before speaking.

"The pain...  This pain I hide.... I deserve it, yet... I fear it... I just... Don't want to feel anything.... At all...."

She murmured those drunken words before slipping into a deep sleep, leading her love to hurry the bleeding drunk girl to the hospital.

She recovered, and she is well, unfortunately under watchful eye, but she knows they will eventually give up trying to care.

Nothing will ever let her change her need to feel numb and to not think.

It hurts much more when your sober.
Let me feel completely numb,
Just let this war be over.
This pain is far too hard to over come.

Hand me the whiskey,
Its a desperate need.
Give me a blade,
So I can finally bleed.

I don't want to feel,
So let me the smoke cloud my head.
These wounds bleed like my tears.
Can't take back what was done and said.

~•~•~•~•~•~•~•~•

Okay! Hope you all enjoyed that. This is just stuff I get from my head. None of this really happened to me, to be honest, but I just got this idea out of nowhere, but as well as from my feelings.

I sometimes feel like not wanting to feel anything, and I do sometimes feel ignored no matter what. I never tell people this only because I'm either afraid of how they would react, like it would be the same thing said and heard over and over again, or it'll never change, or, I guess, just because I don't want people worrying about me or giving me sympathy and/or attention.

I don't want any sympathy towards this. This and other poems/short stories are only for purpose of sharing my literature.

I will say this: it may seem bad now, but just know that it will get better one day. Don't let them take you alive.

POEM WAS WRITTEN BY ME, SO PLEASE DON'T STEAL IT!!

Thank you for reading, and be sure to give some feedback on what you though.

❤❤❤