my hand shakes with cold sweat as i drag the blade across my skin
i’m morbidly infatuated with the way i feel my skin snag… rip…
tear.
the blood off the knife tastes almost sour, but it’s sweet at the same time.
my phone is going off with concern
i see the flashing of conversations
but i ignore it all
they weren’t there in the first place, won’t be there now.
nobody is ever there when i need them
i cut because i feel this indescribable amount of hate towards myself.
the blood is reassuring
the pain is calming, it reminds me that i feel something other than emotions
it brings me back down to earth
every time i cut a little deeper, feel a little more.
no friend is ever 100% there when you need them
no one is good enough
but the knife is
it’s wherever you put it, wherever you want it to be
whenever you want it to be
i hate myself. i hate myself. i hate myself.
i’m a selfish cunt.
i’m a bitch.
i’m a whore.
my friends are nice out of sympathy.
everyone hates me.
i’m a bad friend.
i hate myself i hate myself i hate myself.
those words vanish and the blade snags and tears my skin,
breaking up those bonds, breaking up those thoughts.
it’s a correlation.
it works.
