Bloody Butterflies

Posie Gray stared at her bedroom ceiling, trying to slow her thoughts down. Trying to process whatever feelings provoked them.

I need to get rid of this rubber band, she thought, the said rubber band being twisted around the fingers of her right hand over and over. Her left hand was resting on her stomach since she was laying on her back. Each rubber band she had would wear out and eventually break, so she would have to find a new one. This one was about to break, which she knew because it was a bit too stretchy. She would wait till it would snap, she decided, and then she would dispose of it.

But right now, she pretended that this was recovery. Right now, sleeping was the only thing that she did with her free time. And every time that she skipped a meal, she would call it "self care" because merely eating was so taxing. She pretended that she still enjoyed to paint, that she still enjoyed all the same things that she used to. And she thought that she would pretend that the familiar bleeding lines never happened.

Posie Gray wanted to sort her thoughts and put them into boxes, into categories; fold the self-deprecating humor into her drawers as needed, hide her yellow roses in the closet so they could die, push the yelling monster under the bed to drown out his voice telling her about how so goddamn unloveable she was. She wanted to decorate her veins with smaragdine vines, to see the flowers grow from her fingertips, to paint butterflies on her skin. She wanted the recovery that made her feel safe in her own body, the recovery that made her say she was glad she had made it to the better side. But at this exact moment, she couldn't focus on the better things she wanted because she could only focus on one thing.

That thing was the feeling of the razor blade creating creases deep enough to leave a scar, the sound of the thin metal carving into her skin. The slight anticipation and the satisfaction of watching the crimson liquid gather in beads, the temporary relief as the cold slipped off of the edges of her thighs and her arms. The light tapping noise of her body's red tears as they dropped onto the floor. The way that she didn't even feel the pain when she saw the comforting sight of her own blood.

It was at that point that Posie decided that her romanticized recovery would have to be postponed. Right now the problems of her parents and her school and her friends and everything else she happened to fuck up was prickling underneath her skin, begging for an escape. Posie Gray rarely understood what to do or what steps to take, but when she succumbed to the monster under her bed, she knew exactly where to go and exactly what to do.

She promised that butterflies were on her skin; she told herself she would recover. But right now, the beast inside of her brain had made it crystal clear that he didn't like butterflies unless they were bloody. He didn't like vines and flowers, he liked fire and smoke. Tonight, the beast rattled and broke his chains so that he could climb out from under the bed. He begged for destruction, because while he didn't like most things, he liked Posie least of all.

So she applied her painting knowledge to the familiar old canvas. She used the tool she had from her pencil bag to create light and choppy lines, which she would consider the rough sketch. As she figured out what she wanted to draw she went a little deeper, admiring her own work as the color of the paint got a bit more bold. She decided to wrap up what she would consider her artwork when the paint started to fall out of place and drip off of her canvas.

At this point, her heart was racing because there was nothing like the guilty thrill of bleeding for the sake of her own wounds.

With trembling hands, she wiped the blood off of the blade with her shirt and hid it in her jewelry box. Suddenly, the realization of what she had done hit her, and she started to uselessly dab her side with toilet paper. She briefly got into the shower, and even though she had no razor blade, the harm she'd done to herself wasn't enough.

As if to both clean it off and make the monster stronger, she aggressively scrubbed her fresh cuts with soap and hot water. When the pain seeped through her new wounds, she muttered out a strained tangle of curse words and grabbed a towel, quickly getting out.

When she came to her senses, Posie looked into the mirror at the side of her left hip. Ingrained onto her body was a ragged and bloody butterfly. For the messy shape being made out of so many jagged lines, it was a relatively easy image to make out. But it was a reminder that she wouldn't recover, that she would always have permanent evidence of her stupid decisions. No matter what choice she made, every stupid decision would follow her. Including making herself bleed.

She started to get ready for bed, changing into a sweater and loose pants as she began to reflect.

Posie Gray knew that recovery was romanticized, and it was going to have its ups and downs and now it was a battle she'd be fighting forever. She was aware that cutting itself was romanticized, and she even understood that she romanticized it herself. The way she saw it, it was the only way to make the pain more manageable. Romanticizing her own problems was the only way to give herself any real control, any purpose. It was just that she only knew how to do that through self-destruction.

She started to clean up the stains on the counter with an old wash rag.

In reality, she knew that she wasn't strong for this. She wasn't a damsel in distress, she wasn't a broken girl who needed someone to kiss away her fucked up monster. She wasn't a tragedy just waiting to happen or the girl who never stood a chance. She wasn't meant to later 'admire' the shit she'd done to herself, she wasn't supposed to use her emotional turmoil to create a meaningful, 'real' connection. She wasn't supposed to be proud of her scars because she knew they weren't beautiful.

Posie let out a sigh as she walked into her room. She got under the covers and stared at the ceiling again. This time, her lights were off, so it was dark.

She knew she was stupidly romanticizing her self-harm, even if she didn't want to admit it. It was easier believing that there was a cut-and-dry answer, a tangible reason for why she did what she did. Having fake faith in whatever being that didn't really exist. Posie Gray knew that she was really the only one who could make herself recover even if that included others' help. She knew that she was stuck in her own head, turning against herself for her own relief.

She groaned, turning towards her side and closing her eyes so that she could eventually fall asleep again.

Deep down, Posie Gray knew that she was simply a girl who was struggling to cope. And, most importantly, she knew that these struggles weren't all of who she was.

A/N

Hello! I just wanted to say that if you're here because you can relate to what the story is about, I don't have any good advice but there is always someone who supports you, even if you don't know it. Take care of yourself the best you can right now <3