Bloody Fingers, Broken Mind

R E P E R C U S S I O N

TRIGGER WARNING: contains graphic descriptions of depression and self harm.

I'm suffocating again.
I'm laying in a bed of tears while a blanket of anxiety and fear is wrapped around me,
constricting me like a boa constrictor.

My throat closing off with choked emotion, the agonizing scream building in my chest is tightening like a noose around my neck as it builds its way up my body but never releases from my chapped broken lips.

I'm in that silence that is so thick that I can't breathe even if I weren't already gasping for air.

I feel like digging my nails into my chest and clawing my way to my heart until I can tear it out and get rid of all of the pain.

It's amusing in some way how I keep searching for a reason as to why I keep doing what I do. It doesn't help anyone, especially not me. But I don't want it to help me. I want it to destroy me.
I drag these blades along my soft skin and slice freely as if my arms were paper.

I wait for enough blood to trickle out until it covers the counter.
I wait to feel something.
I wait for myself to stop.
I wait.

..for what?

For something.
Anything.

Anything to get me to stop, anything to convince me to keep going.
Anything to convince me to dig the blade deeper.
Anything to convince me to drag the blade vertically rather than the cowards favorite of horizontal lines.

My body is my canvas,
not my temple.
If my body was a temple,
I would have demolished myself
long ago.

Instead, I prefer a more artistic approach.
I use a blade as my brush
and my blood as my paint.
I make beautiful horizontal blood sunsets on my wrists.

But not many people would call my passion art.
They'd call it a disorder.
An imbalance of chemicals.

I don't understand them and they don't understand me.

Simple.

But whatever the case may be, whether they're right, or I am,
It won't stop me.

It's my body after all, right?
I choose what I get to do to it.
What I get to make of it.

After all, no one else had a problem with using my body.

No one cared how they scarred me,
Marked me,
Burned me,
Abused me.

At the end of the day I was just a body.

So if I am just a body, why can't I make it beautiful in the eyes of those who called it ugly?