I have often said that suicide is the point where a persons pain outweighs their ability to cope. Some of us cut ourselves for that endorphin rush that follows. The physical pain outweighs the emotional for just a while. It soothes what is wrong with us. Those of use who cut know why we do it. Those that don’t will never understand the brief respite that it brings.
As all of you have probably guessed I include pictures with many of my posts. These are pictures that affected me in one way or another. They meant something to me. I have been looking for one in particular. It seems that no one has been able to capture the haunted hunted look that I see in my eyes when I look in the mirror. Perhaps that is why I stay away from mirrors.
People see the scars and ask. I tell them that yes I did it to myself, yes I had a reason, and yes I wear the scars proudly. They are a sign that I am still alive, still me, and still breathing for the moment.
I have been asked why I don’t raise my voice and why I don’t scream. I don’t scream because I am afraid I might never stop.
An empty room with an empty girl sits silently on the floor she stares at the exposed skin and drags the blade and presses in the comfort that this action brings are worth the scars that will not have the chance to heal soon she will know what it is like not to feel.