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Addicted to Pain

It is a drug. It is addicting. I take pleasure in seeing the blood, the dark crimson contrasted against my soft, clean skin.
I like the VISIBLE marks I leave. I do not have to keep my thoughts invisible, locked up inside of me until the next panic attack.
I can simply write it all down on my skin.
No one can see. I cover them. The secrets.

Its my guilty pleasure.
My unnecessary pleasure.
My "this isn't so pleasurable until its actually over" pleasure.
My so not original, stereotypical pleasure.

My bad side visibly proven.

When I rebel by breaking rules, I feel as though I am flipping the world off. Rebelling against others.

But when I hurt myself. When I draw blood.

I feel as though I am only flipping myself off.

And I like it.



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