tw: graphic descriptions of s3lf harm
keep yourselves safe, i'm serious <3
no comments or likes are important enough to me to put yourselves in danger. i know only, like, two people read these and i'm so very glad that you do but you are also my friends and i care about you so much and i never ever want to do anything to upset or trigger you. this is just a angry vent piece and it will not hurt my feelings if you don't have the capacity to read it rn or ever. i am d3ad serious about this.
also if you need me, reach out. i'm here. i know that i sound like i'm not doing good rn, and i'm not. like, i am doing pretty bad atm, but helping others really helps me with my own self-worth problems bc it makes me feel needed when it is so hard for me to believe that anyone could ever need me.
that sounds a little selfish. why do i have to be this way? i want to help you for you but also for me. sorry if that makes me sound like a jackass //gen
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it is no exaggeration to say
that i'm addicted.
i feel like we all are,
once we start
isn't that why we call it relapsing?
because it's an addiction.
it's a rush.
it's a relief.
everytime i see a blade,
whether it's a knife or a razor or scissors,
everytime,
every goddamn time,
i feel a pull.
i feel a tug.
to pick it up,
and glide it across my skin
to drag it along
my thighs and hips.
just to release...
some of the shit pent up inside me.
i want to sit in the shower,
watch as the red blood mixes with the water.
watch as it swirls around
and down the drain.
everytime...
every fucking time.
i can't shave my legs,
or cut vegetables.
i can't shape paper with scissors,
or sharpen a pencil.
i can't cut a cake,
or trim my eyebrows.
not without wondering,
'how much would this one hurt?'
'how long has it been?
how long can i hide this?'
'how much should it hurt?
how far can i go?'
even in my happiest moments...
birthday parties and christmas and craft time,
there is always a part of me...
a part of me that knows and feels and longs.
every. fucking. time.
when i shower, when i change
i look down,
there are scars staring back at me.
not angry and red anymore,
but i still remember when they were.
and sometimes,
i still want them to be.
my scarred upper thighs
from when i was young
years and years,
relapse after relapse,
and they just keep
piling up
and i have to keep fucking looking at them
everyday
and then i think
about adding more...
more and more and more
until i don't feel hurt anymore.
until all of my feelings,
good or bad,
are drifting away,
deeper into my clouded mind.
until i am numb...
to everything but the sting.
i don't want to die.
i just want to feel something else for a while.
then i have to hurry up,
work very quickly,
before i have the time to think
and regret it
or, even worse,
to think and not regret it.
