I want to scream. I want to cry. I don't even hate to admit it, I want to die. I want to stop this constant hurt. It seems to go on and never stop. I want the voices in my head to shut up. I hear the words you're worthless, ugly, they tell me there's no reason to get out of bed. They also tell me to stop cutting my skin. It's truly not paper. The blade is not a pen. I am truly an artist of the pen and paper come together. I don't want to quit, I'm not sure I can. Every time I've made is a masterpiece but only my mind can see it's beauty. Once I finish my artwork the lines will soon fade. If I make a mistake I cut. Cut, cut and cut some more until the mistake is no more. Until the blood pouring out covers the slightest blemish, anything I missed before I start over. A clean canvas, when the lines heal, I'll trace them sometimes remembering the memories behind each line.
