No one is there

Hope

* warning*
This chapter contains graphic depiction of self harm. Procede with caution and have a trusted person proof read if necessary

I am not a Bleeder.
When the blade slices my skin, no matter how deep, I don't gush red.
There's no immediate satisfaction.
You watch the skin separate, sometimes muscle.
You see the milky pale insides as they pull apart.
But slowly,
You'll see the start of the red dots.
Eventually I will bleed,
If I drain long enough I'll fill puddles around myself.

But I am not a "Bleeder"

When I love someone I always love them as deeply as I can.
This is a problem because no one has ever loved me back in that way.
It's almost as if I shouldn't let anyone near me
I always want too much.
My head will run and jump with things and I will always have too many expectations.
They don't count if I have to tell you to do them.

I am not a Bleeder,
But I don't expect anyone to love me how I love them.

I hurt my own feelings.
When the blade splits my skin it is me,
But when I think someone is surprising me and they don't it's the same.
I get hurt by things no one knew to do,
And because of it I can never tell them I'm hurt.
I never tell anyone when I use the blades again for the same reason

I am not a bleeder but I cut myself regardless.

Watching the blade split my skin,
Letting my mind expect something grand,
They are the same kind of pain.
Not immediate, but after a few minutes it trickles in.
Numb, fire, ache, empty.

The only difference is I am not a bleeder.

The blade does not draw blood the way my own brain will draw it from my heart.

I am not a bleeder because I am already so torn up inside.
I did this to myself.

How am I supposed to bleed when I always loose too much before the blade ever even comes.

I am not a bleeder, because everything I loose is inside my own head before it will ever reach the holes I create in my body.