I am not solid, but hollow

There is this feeling like she’s tied a rope around her neck and with every step she takes, the knot moves a little bit closer to her skin. She’ll have rope burns by tomorrow, a cut that bleeds by Friday, an open and gaping sore by next week all raw and red around the edges. She’ll only feel that relief when her neck breaks, her throat will open up and she’ll finally be able to breath. She’ll finally be able to tell of the beast that rode her back like a pig for eighteen years. Like a deformed baby he’d cry in her ear. She fed him well and so he grew till her back was so hunched she had forgotten what the tops of trees looked like. She’ll see a lot of roots at the end of her days.

But till then, she goes to the kitchen and opens the second to last drawer nearest the sink and pulls out a knife. She slips the handle down the front of her pants, covering the blade with her shirt till she gets to her room. She gathers hydrogen peroxide, cotton balls, a towel and lays them at her feet on the floor where she sits cross legged, her shirt sleeve pulled up to her armpit. There’s a special vein there, running down her upper arm. It’s blue under her skin, bulges out a little bit, bleeds the blackest blood. She swabs the blade with a cotton ball drenched in peroxide and begins to cut.