Addict: Setting the World on Fire
Entry 1
Dear Someone,
I can’t believe I’m actually taking time out of my day to write this. I might as well start with the basics. My name is Jessica. I’m a cutter and one hell of a hardass. I live in my head with numerous monsters of mine who I have come to call my friends, The Dark One being the most prominent. Also, i and myself have some good conversations.
i (lowercased) is the clear thinker. Myself is me, and I’m just screwed up all over.
I would elaborate on why I believe I’m screwed up, but this is a “letter to someone” meaning a latter to no one. And I already know my own views. So why write down things I already know? It’s pointless, really. Writing to someone, when no one is actually going to receive this. Mother of shit I had better keep this hidden. Even dad is becoming nosy.
So here’s the update: I like cutting. Slit my wrists and my hand gets cold. Little red shiny beads of blood start showing and I think they look pretty. The pain is just something that comes with the beauty. It’s just pretty. So pretty. Pretty. There has always been something that amazes me about blood. Maybe it’s the realization of mortality or the learned knowledge that there is something beautiful under ugly appearances. That we have insides.
I with I could rip my insides all apart. Take them out of me and lay them on the floor. Look at the and analyze their beauty. I’d take out my heart first, them bite the barrel and blow my brain across the ceiling. I think they would look pretty across the walls and on the ceiling, in little bits scattered everywhere. Decorated with blood. And I’d have a song of mine as a goodbye note, for the sake of tradition. Probably with Purgatory March. Yeah. Darkie would like that. So would i. Confuse the shit out of people, because of the lyrics.
Oh, and I’m 15.
I can’t believe I’m actually taking time out of my day to write this. I might as well start with the basics. My name is Jessica. I’m a cutter and one hell of a hardass. I live in my head with numerous monsters of mine who I have come to call my friends, The Dark One being the most prominent. Also, i and myself have some good conversations.
i (lowercased) is the clear thinker. Myself is me, and I’m just screwed up all over.
I would elaborate on why I believe I’m screwed up, but this is a “letter to someone” meaning a latter to no one. And I already know my own views. So why write down things I already know? It’s pointless, really. Writing to someone, when no one is actually going to receive this. Mother of shit I had better keep this hidden. Even dad is becoming nosy.
So here’s the update: I like cutting. Slit my wrists and my hand gets cold. Little red shiny beads of blood start showing and I think they look pretty. The pain is just something that comes with the beauty. It’s just pretty. So pretty. Pretty. There has always been something that amazes me about blood. Maybe it’s the realization of mortality or the learned knowledge that there is something beautiful under ugly appearances. That we have insides.
I with I could rip my insides all apart. Take them out of me and lay them on the floor. Look at the and analyze their beauty. I’d take out my heart first, them bite the barrel and blow my brain across the ceiling. I think they would look pretty across the walls and on the ceiling, in little bits scattered everywhere. Decorated with blood. And I’d have a song of mine as a goodbye note, for the sake of tradition. Probably with Purgatory March. Yeah. Darkie would like that. So would i. Confuse the shit out of people, because of the lyrics.
Oh, and I’m 15.