Worth It

(1) Razor Sharp

I do not own the video above. It is by Dear Runi,. It is a poem about self--harm. Potentially triggering so proceed with caution. Just know that if you do decide to play the video, that it really does set the mood for this short chapter. I really love the poem and I hope you will too! The author is very talented. The poem is sad, but also gives off hope because the poem tells a story of a girl that is suffering with a lot of stuff, but survives. I love that because it means that you can get through this. You may be going through a tough time, but you can get through this and that is what matters!! Anyway, that's all. Happy reading! Don't forget to comment and like!!

***

"Not worth it." I mutter to myself as I stare at the razor in the shower. 

I bet it could slice off some of my skin if I grazed the sharp blade of my pink razor to my silky smooth right thigh. The blood would gush out of my thigh. I'd be setting my blood free. I wouldn't have to think. I could just feel the blade on my skin; see the blood. Crimson Red. Shiny. Beautiful. It would smell toxic. Kind of like a sharpie, but not as strong and it would evoke sharp pain jolting through me. Coursing through my veins.

The next thing I know, there is a patch of raw skin right on my thigh. It's right in the middle of my meaty, thick thigh. Uneven ends come to meet that crimson blood I was thinking about in my head and I feel a jolt of guilt within me. 

I didn't even know I was doing it. 

All I know is that I was just imagining about what it would feel like. What it has felt like previously, the other times I've done it and then, the next thing I know, I have a humongous sore on the middle of my thigh.

"No shorts for me this summer, I guess." I say to myself, with a defeated sigh as I get up from the shower stall, feeling the water trickling down my body. Down my sore. Cleaning off the blood before it hardens onto my skin.

"Know one will ever have to know." I reassure myself as I take a deep breath and then continue to wash the rest of my body. I scrub off all the dirt that never really seems to go away. 

I'm dirty. Always dirty. No matter how many times I shower off the stink within me, the food under my nails, the dirt that seems to cling to me in the dead of night. Screeching at me that I don't deserve to be alive. 

Not when they are gone. Dead.

And some part of me knows that they are right, but I just can't seem to ever go through with ending it. I guess that makes me weak. 

And so, the vicious cycle continues. I clean myself off all in vain because the dirt is still there.

The voices still screech in the dead of night, reminding me of why I don't deserve to be here.

And nothing will ever change those voices mind's.