TW: blood, suicide, dissociation
When I was five years old, I first witnessed a murder.
It wasn\'t the usual murder of an individual or a mass shooting;
none of that kind.
It was a soul suicide.
Something in me died on July 22nd and I observed it from outside of my body.
It\'s proven psychologically that when one has a traumatic experience in life,
they tend to disconnect from their persona and overlook their mechanical body hurting.
When I was five years old, I first realized how pretty I was.
I looked down at my body and forgot all about my insecurities.
My imperfections made me who I am.
My miniature frame softly planted on the cold bathroom floor,
my brown hair wet from the water I had spilt earlier.
My hazel eyes, two empty looking glasses, and my sewn mouth.
I tried to reach out and touch my fingers, but I didn\'t feel them.
They simply went through them like I didn\'t even exist.
When I was five years old, I first welcomed the idea of nothing being real.
I didn\'t feel my surroundings.
I couldn\'t control other people\'s thoughts,
and I felt locked inside my mind,
an endless maze of millions of wasted opportunities and black-and-white dreams.
It was an invisible, metal cage not letting me keep on living.
When I was five years old, I first regretted being born.
I didn\'t ask to be born in the first place.
I didn\'t consent to being born.
My young brain could analyze it that my parents violated me by giving me birth.
When I was five years old, I first thought of dying.
The thought stabbed my mind and made it bleed.
The blood dripped along my arms,
my stomach,
my thighs,
my knees,
my feet.
It was warm.
I put my red fingers to my lips.
It had an addictive taste that actively corrupted the maze I had built in my mind.
When I was five years old, I first committed murder.