Against my beating heart.
It was 3AM. The rain was pouring like an relentless drumming on the ceiling into a rhythmic progression of background noises. I curved my back as my hands came to my face, pushing my head upwards against the bed, tears falling into gravity like the progression outside. I struggled to breathe, exhaling in a silent but aggressive scream. I was silent, except I could hear everything. The beating of my heart joining the concussive rhythm of the rain outside, an erratic harmony of persistence in the contrast of erratic beats. I was broken. There was blood on my wrists, scabs ripped open. It stung and itched. I wanted to die.