Nothing. Nothing but the steady beat of my pulse and the memories iv'e tried so many times to erase echo in my head. Again, I find myself sitting on the cold tile holding a silver, stained razor blade in my trembling hand. I knew from experience that soon the serrated edge would be dripping with the thick red. Soon i would hold another memory on the bare skin of my wrist along with all the others on the growing time line.
Memories, not the ones where i smile from ear to ear. The memories that haunt you every second of every day. They make your legs turn to stone and eyes drown. These memories force you to wear a jacket in the summer. These memories force you break. I ask myself why every time im screaming in the steamed shower. Why do i scar myself again?
I'm weak? That's what the whispers say. No, it doesn't hurt as much. Having shreaded skin is alot less painful. The physical pain of having sliced skin is nothing compared to the emotional pain im dealing with. Well, as you can tell i don't deal with it at all.
