a miserable boy who wrung his miserable wrists so dry they never healed the same.
dragging his feet he walks the world, only to come back home and shut the blinds.
i don't know why i bother to approach the window, or press my ear against the glass, or try to peek in between the slats.
the noise is muffled, it's always muffled, and a vague shadow of a figure moves around in the dark. it's always dark. 
like hell would i ever use the front door. 

why am i even so desperate to get a glimpse.
i already know what he does in there.
he lies on the cold kitchen floor surrounded by a collection of carving knives that he swears never to touch again but still they beg for a taste of skin.
he sits in a chair facing the wall and empties bottles upon bottles in the hopes a personality will bloom.
he never speaks but plays dull records to occupy the silence.

and i've seen guests come through
but he never invites me in.
day and night, he sees me staked outside the house and waves, almost taunting me. 
because despite everything i think that i know,
i can't help but wonder if he does anything else in there that i can't see or hear.
and either he doesn't notice me in the bushes, or he doesn't care.

or the third possibility—thisoneismyfavourite—the miserable boy is too afraid of what miserable things i might see in there, if i had a better look.
as if i haven't mopped up blood before.
mine mostly, but another's couldn't be any different.
haven't you heard two out of three ain't bad?
but you gave up the wrists to save the heart. 
was it worth it, if you never use it?
seems to me like you lack all three.

so what lingers inside?
a mess of a boy, or worse—everything that i had expected. completely and utterly predictable.
i'll keep writing until i figure you out.
"then you'll die with that pen in your hand."
i can already hear your voice in my head.

obsessed with writing stories out of words people never said & things they never thought,
saint abby.