I wrote this when i was younger


Cutting.
Slicing.
I take the blade and allow it to graze my skin lightly~I dare mylself to take the challenge
of pressing harder.
Harder.
Harder.
Until I can feel nothing~but the sharpness piercing my nerves~making a pain like no other
shoot throughout my body.
I torture myself on the outside in efforts of relieving the pain on the inside
the deep pain within that consumes my mind.
Each cut I make represents a piece of my soul being cut and analyzed by me
Each cut that I make represents a reason for my self-loathe.
I etch the racing thoughts of my mind, or sometimes I just cut.
I etch sticks to remember the insults that were thrown my way, and which will soon restrict me to being what I am expected.
I stop cutting when I have nothing more
Nothing more at all.
My skin heals
I pick at the scabs which serve as a temporary reminder of the previous actions.
My skin is reddend, but clear nonetheleast.
Clear of cuts and remnants of cuts.
I have no signs of the afflictions of hurt and pain to stare at anymore.
This is only a temporary fix, because at the end of the week, when all is said and done.
I’ll retreat to my room again.
And make my body the canvass, and my thoughts the paint.
These were just thoughts but the memories still remain



I had a friend who use to do this to himself

I put myself in the shoes of a person who cuts themselves

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