The heavy thick smell of iron fills my brain blocking out all my thoughts. The wounds numbed everything else. The way the the skin rips slows your thoughts, the jolt of pain reflects what you've always felt on the inside, and the flow of the crimson blood numbs it all. My mind finally stopped playing back those memories that plague it daily. The memory of being at the side of so many loved ones death beds, so many, the memories of seeing my mom scream and cry at the hand of my dad then being forced to say we love him, the memories of being constantly told how worthless, ugly, and overall unwanted I was all fade away, forgotten in the blood lost. It may be sick that I smile as the blood leave its place over my pale skin, but for once I feel an emotion that I know makes me human: pain. The want to blend into the walls, to be unnoticeable, to stop existing stops for now. Now all I feel is the faint heartbeat in my fingertips as I press on the slit. The pulsing makes the after-thoughts rush; the thoughts that are far more scarier than feeling inhuman. The thoughts of if this cut was the last, the one that matters, how long it would take some to find me. When they found me would they cry? Or would they be shocked, stunned, at what I actually did? Who would cry at my funnel, who would even be there? The scariest thought that replayed over and over; how long until I was replaced, forgotten, a shadow left alone? As the blood slows, tears take its place. Senseless and hurt, I clean the mess, the evidence of my weakness, because that's all that's left to do. It's not done so others can see and help and worry about me, it's done so I can help myself. Half ashamed and half healed I hide the cuts and continue to act strong for everyone else because that's how it's always been, that;s all I've known. The sick existence of the weak and broken.
My Sick Existence
January 1, 2011