I love my scars. Sometimes they are the only way I have to reassure myself that my past was real. There used to be more of them I'm sure, the ones that are left are the deepest. The oldest. The first ones are mostly faded delicate tracings of a lighter shade of white against pale. Groups of three, groups of four, random lines of frustration and pain. I wonder know if I could have done something different. Something else, but I don't know if it would have been enough. Enough to fight the fear and confusion I went through. Suffice it to say that This was enough to me. I know it sounds like self indulged whining but I don't really care.
At A Glance Author mnpxy Contact mnpxy@bme.anon When Five years ago It's happening again, everything is going out of control. Ever since I can remember it starts like this. First the edginess and irritation. Then the anger. Mostly unearned but it burns. It comes and sets a fire to my guts that I can't stop. It hurts to breathe. Every breath drawn in like a dagger. 10 deep breaths my ass. It doesn't help. I can't fill my lungs with one let alone stuggle with nine more. It leaves me gasping for air. I don't want to be alone, I don't want to be here. There is too much light, too many people, too much sound, not enough air. Why can't I breathe?
This won't stop. I can't stop. I need something. something I can't name, I don't really know what I need. What I know is that if I don't get it soon I am going to freak smooth out. The pent up rage and frustration are close to boiling, The bile has almost reached my throat. When it does I'm going to explode/cry/scream/vomit/something. Maybe I'll drink, maybe I'll smoke, maybe I'll get better. right. It doesn't help. Oh, but it burns through me like whiskey anyway. Now that doesn't even dull the pain. But I know what will.
There it is, all I have to do is open the drawer, pull out the books, open the box, then: The Knife. So sweet and innocent and small. 2 and 3/8 inches of matte finish stainless steel with a sandblasted black handle. My gerber. My escape, my getaway, my vacation from the burning of my soul. ~*click*~ .....mmmmm. sharp. good. Is the door locked? yes. Is the music on? yes. Does it hurt so bad that I can't think of anything else. yes.
I sit on the bed and contemplate my choice. I know about the pain, afterwards. The next morning with the sheet plastered to my body with a crimson cast. The stiff scabs throbbing with every heartbeat. Itchy purple reminders not to do this again. Swollen red flesh oozing white and clear tears. The knowledge that what was bliss only hours before can be torment is a hard thing to process into your normal life. Even then though it's still better than the alternative. I know what my alternatives are/were and I prefer to do it my way. This way no gets hurt, no one cries, and I have control over how much damage is done. Some of my friends understand about this urge I have. Some share it. But no one will ask any questions about the cuts anymore than they will about the black eyes.
Everything comes to the top again. All the memories, all the times I should have, could have done something to make them happy. But it doesn't work; nothing works. Everything is wrong and I can't do anything right. I might as well be dead. But I don't want to die. I have things and people I care about. And I know that this won't last forever. For now though I have all this rage and no way to process. I can't sleep, I can't eat, I don't want to feel this way anymore.
I remember I'm holding the answer. I look at the knife and Thump-tha-thump-tha-thump. My heartbeat drowns out the baseline as I move the knife towards my skin. Tha-thump-Tha-thump. Shaking, my hand extends the sharpness to the flesh. Sweating, I dig it in, the skin yielding, stretching, parting for the blade. My crying is slowing down as I stare in awe at the familiar sight. Gasping for oxygen I pull the blade through my skin, all the time pushing down through the resistance. PUSH, a drop; pull slowly and push it all out. Thump-tha-Thump. Push out all the tears shed for nothing. Push out all of the dreams I gave up on. The fears of abandonment and fears of being loved. Tha-thump-Tha-thump. Push out the wishes for something passed and push out the hate of mediocrity. Push out the reasons I give myself and push out the thoughts that go with them. Tha- thump-tha-thump all the time watching my heart push out the blood in time to my pulse. Swelling a little bit with each beat then, past the point I thought it would spill, finally it wells over. Running down my skin warm with possibilities.
The blood is release. It is my hate, my fear, my love, and my life. All spilled before me in a flow that stops my breath only to start it back without the suffocating restrictions of only a minute before. My skin weeps tears of ichor to soothe my screaming heart. The blood is so scarlet. My blood, bright rose red. I can't believe it's mine. Nothing in me is so bright. And then I realize I'm alive. shhh don't tell my secret