Suicide Notes and Lies From A Polaroid

The polaroids lie in a heap on the floor. These were the last of the memories from the previous years. Some held smiles, others held romance and love. 1

They lie in a misshapen pile, all spilled out over the floor. Some of them were wet and distorted. Teardrops tended to do that to the pictures. You wouldn't know it by looking, but they all were soaked. 2

The candles were all blown out and smelled of jasmine. Their red wax had melted almost completely away. It gave an ambience to the room, letting off enough light to be able to write. 3

A couple of notebooks lie next to the guitar, serving as a medium for his idyllic inspiration. The notes jotted down on the blue-lined paper were composed of thoughtful words that witheld so many memories - bad and good. His songs were melodies for the lonely, and heartbroken. As the strings were plucked, the air would fill with his sorrows, as well as his pain.4

In the corner, he had finally fallen asleep. He pulled at the black comforter a bit, ensuring to keep himself warm. He would toss and turn a bit in his sleep. He hated being alone - especially sleeping alone. 5

After almost an entire night of reminiscing and shedding tears, he had given out. The only company he had was his guitar, and it only satisfied his outreach to be heard, and nothing else. 6

The light was barely pouring in, dimly lighting the hardwood floor. The black skull and crossbones blanket was placed over the window to keep the room dark. He liked it better that way.7

He didn't dream, and he didn't think. He was completely lost to the world. This was definitely a change for him. He hadn't slept in days. It wasn't insomnia, this he knew. It was fear. It was sadness. He knew that he would lie his head down at night, and he would always, no matter what, wake up the next morning. 8

He turned to face the doorway in his sleep, struggling to get comfortable. He seemed so uncomfortable in his slumber, and in all actuality he was. Kicking the cover a bit, he laid his arms out, sprawling. As his right arm hit the hardwood floor, his secrets became exposed. The lacerations were only an insight to what ailed him. He didn't know why he did it. Maybe it was a form of punishment, because she was no longer there? Maybe he felt by hurting himself he was learning a lesson?9

There wasn't much left he could do. He felt like he was alone in his world, and everyone on the outside would look down on him, but not help. The one thing he desired in his life, the one thing he worked so hard for, was just...gone. His reason for breathing had been taken from him. All he could ponder was, how long would it take to find another one. At this rate, he would suffocate before he could breathe again, for any reason. Lying face up, a pair of tears rolled down his cheeks.10

The polaroids were in a heap on the floor. These were the last memories from the previous years. Some held hurt, others held pain, and suicide notes.