I'm a paradox. I tell myself and everyone around me that I want to be happy yet I force myself to be sad. I think and do things I know will end up hurting me, and I pretend it has another cause. I'm too lazy to be the ambitious perfectionist, I like to think I am. I try both hate and love myself and everything I am and stand for as a person. I crave attention so bad but always reject it when anyone fulfills my craving. I understand emotions and how they work but not feelings. Especially not my own. I want to be alone, but when I finally am, I'm lonely. Even when I'm around people, I'm lonely. I contradict myself in almost every way possible. It's not because I want to, it's a habit now. It comes so naturally to me. It lays in me almost as a defense mechanism.

I'm fine.
I'm crying,
but only when I'm alone.
So in front of you,
I'm ok.

I'm ok.
I'm losing my mind, 
but that's only in my head.
So in front of you,
I'm all right.

I'm all right
I'm pulling out my hair,
but I wear hats.
So in front of you,
I'm pleased.

I'm pleased.
I'm not sleeping,
but I conceal my undereye bags.
So in front of you,
I'm good.

I'm good.
I'm tearing my skin apart,
but my shirts have long sleeves.
So in front of you,
I'm well.

I'm well.
I'm killing myself,
but when I'm dead its all over.
And then I'm no longer in front of you,
I'm dead.

Cutting is just like a hot shower. At first, you don't even want to get a shower. But when you're in it, you don't want to go out. Cutting has a lot of resemblance to that. You never picture yourself as a cutter until you start, and then it's too late. Then it's too hard to stop.

When you first get in the shower, it's hot and burns a little - but the water feels good. After a few seconds, it doesn't burn anymore, so you turn up the hot water until you can tell, that it has gotten hot again. You continue until you run out of hot water. Then you step out and look down on you bright, red body. You didn't notice how hot it was because your body had built up a tolerance to it. But the entire time you were in the shower, letting the scalding water cover your whole body, it was burning hot. And you didn't even realize.

That's how cutting is. In the beginning, it hurts a little, but the good feeling it gives you overpowers the pain. So you continue. Eventually, your body develops a tolerance, and you are forced to cut deeper to feel the same pain as in the beginning. You keep making the water hotter, and you can't even tell how much it's burning. Until you finally step out of the shower.

You look down and realize what the blade has done to you. You realize that you have to stop, but you don't. Just like you don't stop taking hot showers.

That is cutting.

The most important things are the hardest to say.

They are the things you get ashamed of because words diminish them -- words shrink things that seemed infinite, when they were in your head, to no more than living size, when they're brought out. When let out it's practically not existing even though you haven't thought about anything else for a long time.  But it's more than that.

The most important things lie too close to wherever your secret heart is buried.  You can make revelations that cost you so dearly only to have people look at you in a funny way, not understanding what you've said at all, or why you thought it was so important that you almost cried while saying it. When it's finally let out, it's misunderstood or ignored. It's out there for everyone to judge. It's not yours anymore. And if your secrets aren't yours anymore, then what is?

That's when you purposely lock every secret and every detail about yourself inside. That's when you decide never to reveal anything about your self again. No matter how much it kills you inside. The secrets stay within, and can only escape with help from an understanding ear. But even though you've made those promises to yourself, you'll break them. Without a doubt. And you'll regret it as soon as you open your mouth, but then it's already too late.

That is the worst.

It's the taste of salt from the oceans that run from tired eyes.

It's the feeling of cold metal going through pale skin that's never seen by daylight.

It's the sound of silent screams in the middle of the night.

It's a world seen through tear-blurred eyes.

It's the ***** smell from a poisoned inside.

I can no longer wake up and decide what clothes I want to wear. I can no longer put on a t-shirt when it's warm outside. I can no longer wear mini-skirts, dresses, t-shirts or shorts without putting an extreme amount of thoughts into it.
Every inch of fabric counts.
Long sleeves aren't just long sleeves anymore. I now notice exactly where it stops on my wrist. It now has to be a certain length. Same goes for skirts and dresses. I can only wear long dresses and ****-skirts. Shorts is no longer an option.
I am almost always sweating. And for a very long time, I will continue to sweat.
It needs to be covered.
The world can't handle it.
That's why pictures of the harsh reality are removed or censored on social media. But I need to do my own censoring in real life. In real life, you can't just remove it. You never can.

It's 2 am,
and I welcome in a formal madame.
Madame Darkness,
that fills my soul, my mind.
A darkness that isn't black nor blind.
We walk hand in hand,
Madame with a specific plan.
She lures out my tears,
lets me know that no one cares.
I've done this for years,
cause she never disappears.