Sloppy White Lie Life ~ A Cutter's Story

>>> Song: "Butterfly Cry" by Kerli

>>> I've rated this R because of the content. There will NOT be sex scenes or anything vulgar like that, I assure you. Just a lot of blood and emotions. I don't really have a bunch to say this time around... Except that my inspiration for writing this was the fact that I cut and there are many others on this site who cut. So this is to all of us; The Cutters.

--Kenna! <3

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Part One ~ Can anyone save me? 

    Chapter One ~ The Starting Line 

I sat in my room, looking out my full wall window, watching as the rain trickled down in curved, crooked rivulets. I wish I could be like the rain. I wished that I could flow as I wished, go where I wanted, and be as free as the birds that searched for shelter from my wet parade. 

Is this what it feels like to be dead? To be dying?

I asked myself this question as I sat on my bed, letting my liquid life force flow red from my wrist.

At least some of me will be free.

My ribs are the same; tender, red and free. 

But no one will ever see this freedom. They will see only the sad inspiration behind it. They will see the lonely girl searching for a permanent freedom, rather than this red temporary one. They will see the shattered life that is truthfully a sloppy little white lie. 

They will not see the happiness the temporary freedom brings. They will not understand why I do this. They will not do what is best for me. 

They will give me to a doctor who will think he has made me better when he really just fueled the fire, made it worse. They will do what they think makes me happy. They will break me until I am nothing but a broken, tattered shell of a girl named Me. They will not let me up for breath until it’s too late, until I’m gone.

Until I’m too free. 

That is the only thing that will haunt me; being too free to return to my sloppy white lie life, too free from life’s cruel reign on my tattered existence. 

Breathing is hard, but living is worse. I am broken. 

I keep telling this to myself late at night.

I am broken.

I am broken.

But once upon a time I was not. Once upon a time, I went into an anesthetically induced sleep. I woke up with people surrounding me. I found out those people are dead. Once upon a time, I told mommy and daddy dearest about those people. Once upon a time, they sent me to doctor for some fixing. And once upon a time, I broke into little bitty pieces.  

But I am picking myself back up, putting the pieces where they belong, hoping that they fit properly after doctor tinkered and toyed with me.

The jagged edges cut and sting me. I examine my life, see where things went so terribly wrong, and pray to a more-likely-than-not fake god that things will get better.

I pray to a more-likely-than-not fake god and son that I will not break into anymore little pieces, that I will not find the permanent freedom I seek. 

That this blissful but temporary freedom will keep my rogue emotions at bay. 

Can anyone save me?

Or will I find out what dying is like? I ask myself those questions, too. When it’s almost too late. 

Soon, things will be cut short.

But not soon enough. 

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>>> Cutting isn't a joke. It's a real issue, and not everyone can be strong enough to resist it. So, the next time you see someone with cuts and/or scars on their wrists, legs, or anywhere else on their body, don't snap at them. It only makes it worse. Comfort them, listen to what they have to say, hold them and simply be there for them. That's all we want but rarely get. So, please. Don't make the cuts; heal them.