Cold Coffee and a Black Cat

Another night, another sink
Filled with a mixture of blood
And warm water.
This time, not another person's
Blood.
No, tonight it's mine.
No nameless victim tonight.
Just an already scarred bicep
With fresh cuts to remind me
That I am an addict.
If it's not someone else's blood,
It's mine.
The soreness of the multiple cuts
Is already creeping up and down
My arm.
Shockingly enough, killing
Someone doesn't always
Relieve any stress or frustrations
That can beat a person
(Do I qualify as a person anymore?)
Down.
A sigh escapes past my lips
And my grey eyes stare back
At me...into me.
With a shake of my head, I clean
Up the mess I made to hide
The evidence of any relapse
From those that I live with.
I can hear one of my nephews
Screaming in the other room over Fortnite.
Such a waste of gigs.
But hearing him scream is a good sign.
The voices that call my head home
Are no longer shouting at me
About every little thing.
Shouting at me to kill this girl or that girl.
It's finally quiet for now.
Funny how a bad habit can
Bring a false sense of peace.
A knock on the door brings me back
From...where was I?
"Yeah, I'll be out."
How long have I been in this half bathroom?
Too long if someone noticed.
With a final sweep of the room,
And not a bit of evidence for anyone
To suspect anything,
I open the door and apologize
To my sister.
She's always there.
Always stretching herself thin
To make sure others are okay.
I wonder how she'll react when she finds
Out one day that I'm not who
I pretend to be.
Another worry for another day.
I make my way back to the living room
And sit down in my chair.
Morticia rushes out of the shadows
And jumps up onto my lap.
She looks up at me and yawns
Before curling up in my lap.
At least some things in life are worth it.
Petting her with my left hand,
I grab my coffee with my right
And bring the cup to my lips.
I take a long sip...shit.
Cold.