Intellect (Belldom? What?)

Do you ever feel lonely, but more than lonely, like society's abandoned you, beaten you and bruised you and left you alone to die in their dust? Like you really need someone to talk to, to hold close to you and hug and maybe kiss and just stay warm with if it's cold? But at the same time, you're scared to actually go up and talk to them, feeling introverted and overworked by those around you, scared they'll reject you and throw you down once more, but harder than before?

That's how I feel now, Dom. Abandoned and lonely, clingy yet antisocial. Because I'm scared, Dom. I'm so, so scared. Of them, of you, of everyone and everything, really. I can't trust anything anymore. Nothing is good. Everything is evil. Everything is out to get me, to change me, to turn me into a monster that I'm not. To dumb me down and brainwash me and place me in a line so they can take my thumbprint and scan my voice and face and test my DNA so they can make sure I never escape their iron grasp.

I want to be free. Not from them, but from myself. My brain is like a demon, always hungry for more information, for something to think on, to chew on, before it swallows it into the endless stomach that is my memory and growls and claws at the inside of my head for more. They call me a genius and praise me, and ask me questions that I don't know, only fueling my need for information and thought. This need is my drug, the drug that every teenager does at some point in their young life. My drug is my curiosity, my addiction knowledge, and thought, and mental challenges and puzzles and mysteries. But unlike victims of physical drugs, such as marijuana and tobacco, there's no possible way for me to ever become sober without dulling my razor-sharp intellect.

But that's my biggest problem. I take pride in the very thing that turns me into a monster.

You seem to have noticed that, too, Dom. You yelled at a few weeks ago because you said I didn't love you, that I was only in this relationship for the logical benefits to myself. But that isn't true, Dom. I was having a relapse, falling once again into the deep abyss that is my genius mind. When I do that, I become a robot, only answering to logical and illogical, yes and no, one and zero, on and off. But please, Dom. I swear to whatever gods there may be floating around in this "heaven" or "paradise" or whatever that I am hopelessly in love with you, forever entangled in your ropes of hot, firey affection that you once cast on me, so long ago.

And yet, after you leave me, they still last here, untouched. They still burn on forever on the surface of my skin and heart, trapping me with no hope of any sort of freedom. So I decided that to get through these ropes, I would have to cut them off.

But when I took out the razor, I realized there was no physical rope. It was all mental, or, more accurately speaking, figurative. To fall out of love with you, I would have to cut the ropes with my sharp, quick mind.

But I don't want to become an emotionless sociopath, Dom. I still want to be capable of love, even if not towards you. So I decided to deal with the heartbreak the way any normal cliched idiot would: the hard, painful way.

But when the pain still lasted where your ropes were bound to me, I began to cut at them with the razor, hoping to free myself from their endless torture. But as soon as the ropes were gone, they reappeared, this time dripping in blood; my blood, hot and red and dripping from where I myself had drawn it. In all my heartbroken mania, it took me what felt like ages to realize that what I was doing to myself was known as self harm, one of few things I'd promised to myself long ago I'd never do.

But I'd also promised to myself that I'd never let my heart take over my brain, and that actually hadn't been that bad of an idea. So, rather than stop myself like I probably should have, I indulged myself, slicing up my arms and legs and chest and stomach until my skin was a mosaic of pieces of flesh and cuts in the fabric of my body.