psychosis

;;

hearts stop every day;
you'll never win.
darling, the monster's in my mind.

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He walks in on you painting the walls red.

"Gray?" You turn around, meet his gaze. There's hell in your eyes. You see him and they widen, round and horrified, as if you're suddenly realising that your wrists are leaking and you've painted streaks of blood across your room. As if you didn't realise until this moment how fucking psychotic all of this is, as if you didn't just try to die and then decided to go out with a bang. As if, because you do know, and you're aware, and you're absolutely breaking down, uselessly repeating, "Gray..." as if that'll make the monsters in your head disappear.

As if he can help you when you know he never did, never can, never will.

He looks like he's walked in on a murder scene. Although, and it's funny, it's hilarious because if you could have helped it, he would have.

His lips are moving but no sound is coming out; he looks too shocked to cry, too thrown to do anything but stare at you with growing horror, pale and still as a statue. Beauty like marble, fragile as chalk — this is what you wanted to see, and you're happy because maybe he'll finally finally finally crumble away from you and let go.

Because you're a sight to be seen, a mess of reds and blues that never mix right. Tear streaked cheeks, standing in the middle of the stark room in a crumpled stained hospital gown. Hair wild. Hands clawed, drips of red falling from your fingertips in pretty little teardrops. You see yourself in his eyes, like you aren't in her body but rather floating in the air, watching him walk in on you breaking apart like shrapnel.

How does it feel, Gray, watching your heart self-destruct?

But that's not what you ask. Your mouth can't form words either. You just stare at him across the room, fighting the urge to throw up, disgusted with yourself, with him, with the hot sticky pain running down your wrists. What bubbles out of your throat isn't acid; it's laughter, and it stings harder than bleach. And that thought makes it even funnier because, because, because you'd know, after all—

He's on his knees. The doctors are in the room.

And all you can think, the only thought that stands clear to you through the needles that send you to sleep, that calm your racing heart, that shut down your mind just for a moment, is that no kind boy is gonna defeat the demons in your mind.

You were made to break. You were made to stain white walls red.

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They tell you numbing her is the only way she'll be at peace. You tell them she'd rather live a storm, loud and fast and true to the core.

They tell her you gave your heart to a psychopath. You don't bother explain how she cut it out of you; how she stole it from the cage in your chest, how she drank you in like whiskey, hooked you like a drug, how she burned herself into your bones. You can't tell them how the organ doesn't even work for you anymore, how she kidnapped the beats to keep the life pumping through her veins. They don't understand that you both share the two chambers like one disconnected engine, together coming up with enough spare parts to complete each other and shamble together some twisted concept of a whole.

Who's the crazy one? Who's the lost one, baby? Who's the one who'd never walk away?

—so you just tell them you'll visit again tomorrow, and to please wish her goodnight.

You don't get to choose how you need her. She just is, and you just are. Her demons are yours; your heart is hers. It's how it works. It's how broken machines work. And you know from a lifetime of being spare pieces that completion isn't something you can stop needing after tasting it once.

Some stains don't come out.

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scraped away the paint—
there you were underneath.
there's no hiding you, baby; trust me, i've tried.