WARNING!!! this is NOT a poem...but i needed people to see it...people need
to understand....


looking thorugh a box of memories, at things i hadnt seen for such a time, i
cant remember, i found the one thing that which i once bassed my life
upon...i found my revival, i found my addiction, i found my relaxation...i
found my razor blade. the tip still staind with my pain. the blade still
drenched in my memories. part of me wanted to whipe away to thin layer of
the long sense dried red poison. but another part of me, still found it
relaxing to see it. and remember how i used to enjoy it. how i used to
thrive upon it....
i rememberd how it all started, with just one cut, an 'X' on my
nuckle, to remind me of someone whom i once held dear, to remind me of my
mistakes, so that i could forever rember never to let it happen again. that
one 'X' then spread to every nuckle, then to both hands. the word
'ASS' was then engraved upon the side of my left hand. but i was
in control, i knew what i was doing.
as time went on, i watched and waited impatiently for the wounds to heal,
it was so hard to hide them.and so unbarably shameful to let them be seen.i
wore gloves in the summer heat,and when i didnt, i pulled my sleaves over my
hands or kept them hidden in pockets, i did any thing i could to hide the
blood. i just wanted this shame to go away. but as they healed, and as the
scars began to fade...i felt this urge, to do it all over again.
i sat in my room for hours, staring at the blade layed out infront of me
upon the floor. the temptation was overwhelming. and i gave in to it. as the
slick silver metal cut away each layer of my never broken flesh, it sliced
away my pain. i made one long mark, like a braclet, around my mid-arm.and i
liked the way it looked. i ran my finger across it, and i loved the way it
felt. i licked the blood from my shaking finger tips, and was addicted to
the taste.
........after that night, i never wore short sleves agian......
during the day, i spent my time alone, and in pain, writting by the candel
light in my room with the black curtain drawn tightly closed around my
window. the dull yellow glow of the candles was the most soothing day-time
light youll ever know. but after dusk...the light of the moon far surpases
that of the candle. and the black curtain is drawn widly open now. the stars
poses me in a way i cannot even begin to describe. and so by night, you find
me layn out upon my roof top, staring at the sky, getting closer with my
razor blade, and writting of my pain.
some how, you come to like the days when you are locked away and alone,
longing for someone. the feeling of being lonely...but wanting so badly to
be left alone. you begin to perfer this miserable nights of longing, with
only a pad of paper and a pen, the moonlight, and your blade to keep you
company, over the the days of love and friendship that you are longing for.
and when you are happy... you find your self then longing for the lonelyness
and pain again.
you tell your self its just a few small cuts. but every day they seem to
multiply, in quantity as well as quality. they grow deeper, and longer, and
more frequently made. the wonds that were once slices, are now missing
chuncks of skin. you start with the arms, then the legs, and when you being
running out of room, or just become bored of the area (which you will) you
move on to other parts of your body, your stomach, your thighs, your chest.
and you want so badly to start on your face...but you already find your self
clothed in high socks, and long pants, tight long sleve shirts and jackets,
and when you run out of long sleave shirts you ware arm socks for cover, so
masking your face is just too much. its not as easy to hide your face as it
is to hide the rest of your body.
you put on a fake smile in public, you laugh louder then the croud, and go
out of your way to seem as happy as possible. but as soon as you manage to
get a moment away you let the tears fall again. you find your self keeping
blades in your pockets, and pins on your cloths, and needles in your
wallet..for emergencys...you get passes out of class, run as fast as you can
to the bath room and cut, and bleed. you learn how to hold a blade and cut
all beneath your sleves when you are surrounded by people and make it
completly unnoticable. you stop waring colors because with black fabric you
can mask the blood that seeps through the threads of your clothing. you ware
many layers of clothing in fear that someone my lift the sleve of your
jacket. you quickly pull away when people reach for your hand. you kiss
goodbye the days of short shorts and bathing suits, and become acostumed to
the layered baggy cloths. you learn to whipe the blood away when theres not
a tissue to be found, you learn to love the taste and begin to miss it when
you havent tasted it in a while.
every day the cuts grow deeper and deeper, and you learn how to heal them.
the scars fade more slowly. some cuts wont heal for months and months...and
some scars will never go away. you love the way they look though, so you
dont care.
when your in your room alone, you pull back the layers and stare into the
wonds, and you love the way they look. every mark begins to mean
something,and in the end you feel more and more beautiful with every new
mark that apears. it becomes your life..you live for that feeling of the
blade slicing through your skin. 'normal' people would say it
hurts, but not you, to you, that is the most glorious feeling in the world.
and every day, you blood tastes sweeter.
everyone knows that you can become addicted to drugs, and to alcohol, and
to smoking.what they dont realize, is ....that cutting...is one of the most
addicting things of all
 
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