An Open Book
My Needs,
A little bit of pain and blood here and there never hurt anyone.
I stuck my fingers with pins. I went as far as to make them bleed slowly. I hid them by wrapping bandages tightly around my fingers. But no one knew.
I went farther.
I went as far as to taking the nearest sharp object and cutting shallow scratches on my arms. A hoodie or long sleeves would hide it all.
But it didn’t stop there.
I went as far as tricking my mom into buying my a ’souvenir’ from Florida to cut. It was a pocket knife with designs on it. This time, the cuts went deeper. I slit thin, perfect, deep gashes into my pale arms. I let them bleed, laughing and crying as the mental pain faded and the physical pain came.
I let myself go too far.
I got addicted. I needed the pain. I needed the blood. I needed the relief. I wasn’t going to stop this wonderful, gory heaven. I wasn’t going to let go of it.
You pried it from my cold, pale fingers.
You saw the scars. The blood. You wouldn’t have it. Your daughter cutting? Unacceptable. Was it because I was hurting? No. It was because it portrayed you as the bad mother. I’m only reveling the real you.
Now I have to see the disappointment in your eyes.
It hurts, you being disappointed in me. It kills. But I couldn’t go farther. I wanted to let myself go as far as killing myself, but you took it all away from me. Robbed my of all of my potentially dangerous items. I couldn’t even find a gun to do it.
I went as far as writing a suicide note. Telling everyone good-bye and how I would miss them and, maybe, how much I hated them (you). I stored it under my bed. Too bad you wouldn’t let me go as far as I wanted to.
I stuck my fingers with pins. I went as far as to make them bleed slowly. I hid them by wrapping bandages tightly around my fingers. But no one knew.
I went farther.
I went as far as to taking the nearest sharp object and cutting shallow scratches on my arms. A hoodie or long sleeves would hide it all.
But it didn’t stop there.
I went as far as tricking my mom into buying my a ’souvenir’ from Florida to cut. It was a pocket knife with designs on it. This time, the cuts went deeper. I slit thin, perfect, deep gashes into my pale arms. I let them bleed, laughing and crying as the mental pain faded and the physical pain came.
I let myself go too far.
I got addicted. I needed the pain. I needed the blood. I needed the relief. I wasn’t going to stop this wonderful, gory heaven. I wasn’t going to let go of it.
You pried it from my cold, pale fingers.
You saw the scars. The blood. You wouldn’t have it. Your daughter cutting? Unacceptable. Was it because I was hurting? No. It was because it portrayed you as the bad mother. I’m only reveling the real you.
Now I have to see the disappointment in your eyes.
It hurts, you being disappointed in me. It kills. But I couldn’t go farther. I wanted to let myself go as far as killing myself, but you took it all away from me. Robbed my of all of my potentially dangerous items. I couldn’t even find a gun to do it.
I went as far as writing a suicide note. Telling everyone good-bye and how I would miss them and, maybe, how much I hated them (you). I stored it under my bed. Too bad you wouldn’t let me go as far as I wanted to.