8 days, 8 days I was living, breathing and sleeping.
8 days.
Ocho- meaning 8 in Spanish.
Acht- meaning 8 in German.
8 days since the last time I self-harmed.
8 days, isn’t that great?
I have had a few breakdowns and I have cried a lot in these 8 days.
I feel the urge to cut.
Feelings are overwhelming me.
I’m sad and happy, delusional and anxious.
I get nervous over the simplest things.
I can’t live.
Cutting, cutting was the way I dealt with things.
It was my habit, everyone has one.

My aunt was cleaning out my grams closet and couldn’t find anything red to wear.
She was looking for a red dress, for me to wear to prom.
I guess I had no choice in the matter.
Red dress, why red?
Why did my aunt insist on me wearing red?
Why were we looking in my gram’s closet? Why weren’t they looking through my clothes?
Why were they looking at all? Isn’t is my job to pick out something?
I wanted a yellow dress, a beautiful long yellow dress.
I have a yellow dress, it’s my favorite, but I don’t want to wear it now.
I’m saving it for my funeral, I want to be buried in my yellow dress I already have.