Until I can’t breathe. I’m shaking, falling onto my knees.
I’m sad. Maybe just more hurt. I’m a cutter. Well, no. I haven’t done it in a while. And before the last time I did it, it had been years. That said, I’m a klutz. I get hurt often. I’m generally covered in bruises that I have no idea where they come from. I’m so used to tripping and walking into things that I just don’t remember. People have asked me if my boyfriend beats me, my parents beat me, hell, if my cats beat me. Tonight hurt. I was asked by someone I’m close to if I do it to myself. I’ve never hidden my cutting from my friends. I never felt the need to. But I never ran around showing it off. Honestly, most of the time I forgot about it. I was so used to it that it was always there. I guess I figured that if there were questions, my friends would ask. But if I ever said it hurt, I made it clear that it was my own fault because I did it myself. Consequences of my actions.
I’ll be needing stitches. I’m tripping over myself. I’m aching begging you to come help.
I guess I’m just dumbfounded that he thinks so little of me that I’d do that. It’s one thing to make a cool, calculated slice across skin, versus bruising myself by randomly bumping into the corner of my bed, or kicking something and hurting my fucking foot. What’s the last thing that I did to hurt myself? I broke it when I punched the wall. It’s feeling much better, but still hurts. It hurts constantly, but the most when I make a fist. I can still feel tiny pieces floating where the bone had chipped. Fine, yes. I did that one to myself. I also flat out said, “I punched the wall. I punched it 19 times.” I admitted my stupidity, and am still paying for it.
Just like a moth drawn to a flame, oh you lured me in; I couldn’t sense the pain. Your bitter heart, cold to the touch. Now I’m gonna reap what I sew. I’m left seeing red on my own.
I was just shocked, so overwhelmed by the feeling of… mistrust? I’m not sure what that feeling was. Is. There’s hurt. There’s sadness. A lot of sadness. I’ve wanted to cry since he asked me. I did a damn good job of not doing that. I am quite proud of myself for not breaking down. I’d like to think he couldn’t tell that I was on the cusp of a sob-fest.
I thought that I’ve been hurt before, but no one’s ever left me quite this sore. Your words cut deeper than a knife. Now I need someone to breathe me back to life.
I’m not upset that he cares. I’m not upset that he worries. Don’t think that I am. I’m just upset at how it made me feel. It’s funny. Ironic, even. This is the feeling that makes me want to cut. It makes me want to take my knife and slowly make a razor thin slit down my skin. But, I won’t. Because I just don’t want to do it. I mean, I do, but I don’t.