What is this?

Getting around to it.

I shouldn't be doing this. I shouldn't be writing at twelve in the morning when I have a freshman band orientation in the morning and I will most likely get 4 hours of sleep. But I can't stop.

I know that if I stop writing, I most likely won't pick it up again. I have an alternative account with 2 unfinished works on it and a dual author book on yet another that hasn't made it past the 8th chapter. And yet I keep writing and never finish. 

Too much too say and not enough time to type it down. This is probably boring you. But then again, A climax is risen slowly, and this isn't necessarily for you to read. 

I know what I put on the description box. It says self harm and suicide. I know why some of you read it, because that is why I read that sort of thing, too. To get the feeling of pain and... sadness? is it?... Without doing anything. Every night I have to try and stop myself from pulling out my tool of choice: scissors. 

They often say that a self harmer has more than one device. The same is true for me. I've been hurting myself since I was that little 5 year old escaping under the teacher's desk. I stuck fruit loops in the cracks, according to my mother.

I was a biter. A scab picker. I only pulled out a strand of my hair to see how long it had grown. Even now, There is a scab on my leg from 4 days ago that still hasn't healed fully. I picked up fights with other kids. Stupid boys, not wanting to hit a girl. 

I turned to scorpion fights in the 5th grade, getting off on the high that comes from having my skin ripped off by another's scraping nails under the knuckles of my thumbs, I have the scars, to my parent's annoyances. Those are only the ones they really look at. They don't see me often enough to notice the others.

By now, my mum has seen every inch of my skin. Its odd, how a mother can notice tiny scabs left just above the waistline of my jeans and yet not notice the giant blemish left over by a much larger snip of the scissors when I try on swimsuits. I was lucky that the scrapes on my shoulders had already faded. 

I'm not a serious self harmer, to Poine's dismay. Who is she, you may ask? Nobody but a piece of me. Poine is the name of an ancient Goddess of Pain, but I stole the title for the darkest piece of my mind. I drew her a week ago. She has made the three minor goddesses in my mind kneel before her and work to destroy me from he inside. 

Rosy is my dirty side. She is the one that holds all of the nasty information that kids use against each other on the playground. Curses and the like. 

Roxy is Sound, plain and simple. She twists songs that have nothing to do with me into the story of my life. She plants high pitched squeals that hurt even if they aren't really aloud. Roxy is that little earworm that forces me to hear Emperor's New Clothes over and over again on repeat.

And Iris is the final one. She is Sight. Images. A 24/7 movie flashing memories, clips of tv shows, book words, And worst of all, Ideas. SHe was chained even before Poine arrived. The others chained her up and used her to their pleasing. She has no choice but to entice me forever with visions of my death.

Normal people, humans, would be upset at the thought of themselves or their loved ones dying. I, on the other had, am not.

I have lost 2 family members this year, along with a few cats. I don't cry. I can't. even when I am screaming inside and whimpering on the outside listening to a terribly sad song, I can't. I long for the sweet release of death. 

I mentioned my friend earlier. Her name isn't really Miranda, but you could have guessed that on your own, I hope. She may be my first and best friend, but she isn't my only one. I met her in 4th grade. And then I switched districts, on accordance to my mom's change in workplace. I spent a year in what I will call Limbo. It was 5th grade, and I was at a new school. This would be my third elementary school. I met two people. Their names I am ok with using, as they turned out to be short term friends.

Zara and Jade. They weren't the best, but I dealt with it because I needed allies. This was war. I was stuck in a speech therapy class because I couldn't 'understand humor' which was a waste of time. I understand it perfectly, I just like explaining why the joke is wrong or why it is funny. This time would have been better spent fixing my stutter and expanding my vcoabulary. It sucks that I still have these problems because a few people were too stupid to listen. I may not be good at social things, but I knew what was up. 

5th grade was the year that a... switch was flipped in me. I was already negative from my past experiences, and me screwing up what was supposed to be my second fresh start in school. I learned fast that I can't get a fresh start. I became downright pessimistic, I learned morbid humor, I imploded even more, making others hate me for being different. 

6th grade was when the suicidal thoughts came.

https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=KAmBKyfoJCY