For years, I had hurt myself by dragging a blade across my skin. But that got too old, I had gotten used to it. It was almost, as if, I was immune to it. I have recently come up with a new way to inflict pain on myself.
No, it is not a physical pain. It has nothing to do with blades, knives, or burning. No, my new form of self-harm is you.
I hurt myself with the memories of you. Of you and I. The memories of us hurt me more than any blade ever could. They may not make me bleed physically, but they make my eyes bleed tears. The tears you promised you would never make me shed.
I hurt myself with the pictures of you. The ones of us happy together burn my heart more than any flame could. Baby, they hurt worse than a third-degree burn.
I hurt myself with the shoe box full of love letters from you. They cause more irritation to my soul than any rubber band ever could. They turn my soul red with love, lust, and hatred for you.
You once were the one who stopped me from hurting myself, but in the end, you were the one hurting me.
Isn’t that the most ironic ending to our love story?