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The Mind is a Fascinating Thing

I have no choice; the urge pulls me in, hook, line, and sinker. Here again, hopeless, digging through the drawers of my bathroom, throwing things behind me and caring not where they land, my mind on only one thing. And there it is. It cuts into my palm as I clutch it too tightly, and I look at it for a few seconds. It’s beautiful, beautiful in its taboo, sick way.
I’m desperate when I pull my sleeve up, exposing the marred flesh below, souvenirs of past trips with my faithful companion. My hands shake violently as I turn it the right way, and with a small smile and lots of intent, carrying broken hearts and broken memories around on my back like the presents on the anti-Santa, I bring down the small blade, drawing it across the flesh of my forearm as purposefully as an artist making a particularly harsh stroke. Below my hands, the cut begins to open, scarlet flooding in the trench of skin I’ve opened, beading and bubbling up, dripping like scarlet tears to the floor. But it’s not enough. Again and again I bring the razor down, hissing each time it falls, sighing once blood comes to the rescue. Finally I stop, dropping the lethal razor as it clinks to the ground, landing in a small pool of blood. I watch my arm, watch it come to life in scarlet. Every cut is another word, another memory, another broken heart, another miserable moment. Every cut is forgiveness for those moments; every cut is baptism, baptism for me, the atheist, forgiving my sins in a pool of blood blessed by my aching desire that I worship as if it were a deity. Every cut is deeper, every wound is worse. I’m marching slowly along the road to Death’s door, going willingly, every cut another step. I know I should stop. Part of me wants to, part of me wants to be able to show my arms to the world, never apologize, never remember the pain of these moments. But the rest of me needs this. The rest of me needs the high of every cut, needs the bite of the blade to numb the bite of reality. Nothing is more painful than living in my own head with no escape. Nothing. I’d rather die here, bleeding, than be trapped in my mind, a world of funhouse mirrors.



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