three years ago, I was broken
to say the absolute least.
I was torn between the walls
of my flesh
fighting battles between my breaths
arguing within myself,
out of myself,
for myself, and
against.
you'll notice that I'm not as quick with my words
metaphoric with my phrases
not nearly as expressionate and passionate and
let's just say it
dramatic
as I once was.
I am not the person I was then
I think that a new introduction is needed.
Hello, my name is J
I'm 21 years old, 160 or so pounds,
and I don't care what pronouns you call me.
I have a loving common-law husband
and an almost two-year-old daughter.
I have been clean from cutting for nearly three years now
on October 12th.
No drugs in three years on New Year's.
I. Am. Okay.
I cry less often and sit and stare less.
I clean and cook and learn every single day.
I'm still not too sure what it is that I'm doing
because I never thought that I would make it this far
but by god, I am DOING it.
I have BPD.
so if you knew me then, maybe all of my ramblings
FINALLY
makes a little more sense.
They do to me.
I don't write
not nearly as often
and maybe that's my most obvious sign that
I'm better than I was
three years ago.

here we are again,
sitting alone in a bed
sheets pulled off the mattress,
i've been too depressed to put them back like i usually do.
something so ******* simple, and yet it seems so ******* impossible to do.
my room is a mess
of discarded, disregarded food
that I could never bring myself to eat
much less finish
my fish cries out for food, but how
how can i move, how can i sit, how can i feed
i can't even take care of myself, Cornelius.
I never should have bought you
i told myself i was saving you
I can't even save myself, can I?
my clothes are *****
i've been wearing the same pants for the last week
I wake up, I go to work, I come home, I sleep
I have no time to think
and yet it's all that i can ever do.
I miss the person who used to care
i miss being obvious when i cared
now i can't feel anything
"I love you's" are empty
kisses are soulless, every breath comes without air.
I'm gasping,
but I still smoke
it doesn't burn,
it just jolts me into another reality, i suppose
everything is blurry, i barely remember today
i barely remember starting this.
I'm so good at pretending
i'm so ******* good at it that even I almost believe it.
i'm so hungry
if i eat, i'll puke
those pills look promising.
why am i alive?

Trigger Warning: Involves cutting and attempted suicide as well as an abusive relationship*

J knew better than to be doing this again, especially after last time, but they couldn't help the sense of pure joy that they got when they pulled the slick razor blade from its package. Strangely enough, the sight of the unrusted, sharp, seductive blade made J smile, proving that they gave no other thought to how they shouldn't be doing this. The date was set, now. There was only one thing to do when they got this far along in the process.

They thought to themself, "It's just a few cuts, nothing to it, no reason to worry," though the truth was they knew that they weren't going to stop. Even with everything that they had finally gotten through, even with all the hardships that they fought against, the only thing they couldn't seem to get over was the act of splitting of their skin by their own hands.

They perched themself on the edge of the bathtub and glanced up to check that the door was locked, eyes darting back down after confirming that there was no way someone could walk in on them. They peered down at the barcode of an arm they had, smiling softly to themself as they took the blade into their mouth to hold while they rubbed their now free fingers up and down the bumps protruding from their skin.                                                  

'Not enough,' J thought to themself, shaking their head to get rid of the little voice in the back of their mind screaming, "Don't, J, he'll be mad! J you'll be punished!"

"He only cares because he owns me," J barked back aloud, voice rough and unforgiving. "If he didn't own a part of me, do you really think he'd care? Of course not. This is my rebellion. I don't want to be a part of this world anymore. I don't want to be some part of his sick entertainment."

Each of the bumps along their arm basically begged to be pulled open again, and with their fingers slipping up to their lips to retrieve the blade, they happily obliged. Every slice made upon their skin made J throw their head back, laughing at the sensation of the little pinch followed by the warmth of their blood.

"You know, for a second I thought you'd stop, little bird, but of course, you never listen to reasoning."

"*******, and **** your so-called reasoning, Bear."

Bear stood up straighter now, eyes piercing with malintent.

"You will not talk to me in such a manner, J, have you forgotten your place?"

"My place will never be under you, Bear."

"All humans like yourself belong at our feet. You've made a mistake, J, and now you will atone." He reached towards them, attempting to pull the blade away from their now half-opened arm, but J screamed and kicked away, jumping into the bathtub with their back against the wall, glaring up at Bear with the same glint in their eyes. "What are you doing, J? You cannot run from me. not here, and definitely not anywhere else."

"Don't you dare ******* touch me."

"I own you, J. I own your hands, I own your thoughts, I own your soul. I will touch you whenever I please. And you? You will obey me." J made another deep cut along their wrist, exposing the vein, the blue fading into the red as J bled out. "You think suicide will take you from me? How idiotic you must be, J. You'll just be easier for me to torture."

At this moment in time, J started sobbing, causing Bear's smile to widen as he leaned in closer, brushing the hair back from J's eyes before wrapping a hand around their throat. J didn't flinch, already used to such treatment from their past, but kept eye contact as they smiled through the streams running down their face.

"**** me," they gasped from behind the force of Bear's hand, but he only tsked at them, pulling away.

"I wouldn't give you the honor," he laughed through a sneer, now standing with his arms crossed as he looked down at J's shaking body; obviously they were fighting back against screaming again. "Now, give me the blade, J."

"W-Why," J asked through shaky breaths, letting their arm fall to their side, the blood pooling down into the tub, staining J's leg with the crimson color, emptying out down the drain. "You don't care, no one cares, let me do it, then I can be all yours to **** with, right?"

"J. Give me the blade."

"Why? Why does it matter? If I'm gone, it'll be easier to **** with me, won't it? So, just let me do it, you don't care, right, Bear? So why?"

Bear was clearly fed up with the dramatics here and leaned down once more to ****** the blade with little resistance from J, who let themselves go enough to hide their face and scream into their bare knees, still coated with blood, as each knee rose to J's chest.

"You'll be punished for this, J. You lied. You said you'd stop. You said you'd throw them away. And you know I despise liars."

"Oh, great, what is it this time? More sleepless nights?" J sniffled, breath hitching in their throat. "Do it, ******, do whatever. I don't care anymore."

"So dramatic, little bird. You know better than to call me names, don't you? And besides, doing anything to you wouldn't affect you, you're too used to it. I'll punish my little princess in your place, and maybe even Nicky as well."

J looked up then, frozen in fear. A weakness, their worst one, was the hurting of their friends.

"Please," they whimpered, uncovering their face enough to get on their knees, crawling out of the bathtub to sob at Bear's feet. "Not them."

"Bad girls get punished, little bird. You know that," he cooed with a smile, reaching down to pet J's head. They looked up at him, ****** arm soaking Bear's lower half as they clung to him. They offered a final, soft "please," but Bear was already gone, leaving J to fall onto the floor, curling against themselves into a small ball, screaming out their friend's names.

people act like it's something to romanticize, yknow, being this way. "oh I'm sad" and then everyone suddenly cares, that's what people expect to happen, but see, the sad truth is "oh I'm sad" is usually returned with "well, just stop being sad," or "yeah, me too," or "why? nothing's even happening to you." see that's the ******' thing about depression. even if your day is wonderful, even if you spend the day laughing, when you're alone, or even right in the middle of laughing, you'll be nothing. or at least that's how it is for me. you know I try, I really do, I try for meds, and even with them, it feels like nothing is really working. I'll try with these ******* stupid *** techniques I'll find online, I'll try to get my **** together. and for a time, yknow, for a little bit it seems to actually work. but then the smallest thing goes wrong and I'm back in my hole of self-loathing. maybe death isn't the answer, but life doesn't seem to be it either. I'm constantly manic these days, but all that I can do is sit here and go off inside myself like a ticking bomb until I explode, tear myself open, and start all over again. i. feel. worthless. like I'm nothing, nothing but some spec on the infinite cosmos. and that doesn't bother me much, you know, thinking about how small I am compared to literally everything else.  I know how small I am, I'm finally okay with that, but feeling like this black hole? this is different. because not only am I small, I'm entirely forgotten. but it's not like there's much to remember about me, right?
J.
J was.. J was something, weren't they? If they weren't joking about everything, they were overthinking everything. Sure, J was sweet, but was J really anything we can remember? Do you remember much about J? Cause I sure don't. Let's see. J. J Novella Scott. 5'1, 135 pounds of pure mania and psychotic tendencies. 18 years old when they died, lost themselves to the battle with suicide, found with their blood seeping out of slits they made with the razorblades, aka their lovers. messy dark brown hair on top of hazel eyes, freckles in all the wrong places, eyes unmatched in symmetry. J was abnormally dull.
J.
J loved poetry, witchcraft, and art of all sorts, but they also had a crippling dependency on attention. Regardless of who it was from, they wanted it. A guy with an interest in ******* them, perfect, that's everything they could have wanted, forget anyone that only wanted to hold them in their arms and tell J that they were something incredible, **** all the past boyfriends and girlfriends that wanted J to see how great they were to them, oh yes, **** those that showed some ounce of humanity, because the truth is J just wanted to be used. They've been used all their life, this shouldn't have been anything new. To quote J, "we accept the love we think we deserve." Too bad J only accepted trash men who think with their second head. See, J, they were crazy. Not the crazy that would push a pillow to your face when you were sleeping, or at least they hadn't actually done it, just thought about it, no, J was the type of crazy to meet someone, read that person, discover what they truly wanted, and then J gave it to them. Wanted a **** for a pet? J was your them. Wanted someone to bash in and destroy mentally, J spreaded their metaphoric brain legs, and allowed the headfuck to begin. J was what we call a mirrorer, they can turn into whoever you want them to be just by reading you for mere seconds. They might not have acted like it, but they had a head on their shoulders, it just wasn't used properly.
J.
J was something new, yet not something good enough to be called special. They did normal things, and they did the abnormal. one of their favorite past times was rolling up their sleeves and carving the person who they loved the most's name in their arm. See, J got attached way too easily, and that was one of their many many many many flaws. And when they got attached, it wasn't for a month or a year, that sort of thing was eternal, whether they wanted it to be or not. J wasn't a great person, but they tried to be.
J.
J was nothing to muse at. their features weren't something to be described in a great love novel, they were basic in everything on the outside, and on the inside J was nothing but someone to be afraid of and afraid for. J would say they deserved this sort of death, something by their own hands. J wanted to go for years, and the thing is I'd bet they were just too much of a ***** to do it sooner. Maybe they were waiting for someone to come around and make them second guess it, or maybe they just wanted to be a thorn in the foot of the world for as long as they could. Whatever kept them here, it kept them for too long. See, J, as I've said before, wasn't very special, but somehow they did enough right in the world to make people actually like them, maybe even care for them, despite what J thinks. so in conclusion, J was ******, and J ruined everything they got involved with, may they rest knowing that in the end, they were right about everything that included themself.   J was something weren't they? Or maybe, know, the truth is, they weren't really anything.
J.
J?
J, they were nothing. and the world moves on.

Nothing brings me joy anymore
I sit and I draw or I write
and nothing, there's nothing there
I want to cry, desperately I do
But I just can't
I feel empty and numb, but I was doing so well earlier.
I'm alone
with these thoughts and these nonexistent yet overwhelming emotions
I want to curl up and sob
but I can't
so how do I know that this feeling is even as bad as I make it out to be
If I can't cry?
What am I doing?