I scratch and scratch and scratch until my arm is red.. I’ve never known why, maybe it's to feel something. It’s sick of me to think I enjoy the pain, but if I say I didn’t I wouldn’t be telling the complete truth. I ache to do it, I feel the urge, the need, the itch to scratch and scratch until it's just bone. Until there’s nothing left.. Nothing left for me to itch, nothing left to bleed or feel. But maybe I’ll find happiness in that nothingness? The happiness I’ve been searching for my whole life, it could be waiting for me.. Calling me. I itch and itch and itch until it burns, a slight tingly painful feeling flooding my arm like a wildfire, like an avalanche, hitting me all at once. I wince a little with every scratch.. It hurts.. But I want more.. I scratch and scratch and scratch, like I'm scratching a lottery ticket and hoping for a prize. It hurts more with every scratch, and I find myself pausing, holding my arm for a moment, feeling the way it's warm from the friction. And as I zone out, as I clench my jaw while I think about anything, and everything, and nothing at all, I itch again.. And again.. And again, it still hurts.. But I feel like I can’t stop.. Like I need more. Like I want more.. I look down at my arm, red, with hundreds of scratches lined up from my wrist to my elbow. It burns badly now.. It feels like I’d be bleeding but when I look there's nothing, just the redness and irritation of my skin. But for now, I'll cover them up, hiding them from others' eyes. I don’t want their sympathy, their pity, I hide how much I want to roll my sleeve back up and itch again and again.. And the cycle always repeats itself, again.. And again.. And again. Until I feel satisfied.. Except, I never do..
Jan 21
Jan 21, 2026 at 8:45 PM UTC
I scratch and scratch and scratch until my arm is red.. I’ve never known why, maybe it's to feel something. It’s sick of me to think I enjoy the pain, but if I say I didn’t I wouldn’t be telling the complete truth. I ache to do it, I feel the urge, the need, the itch to scratch and scratch until it's just bone. Until there’s nothing left.. Nothing left for me to itch, nothing left to bleed or feel. But maybe I’ll find happiness in that nothingness? The happiness I’ve been searching for my whole life, it could be waiting for me.. Calling me. I itch and itch and itch until it burns, a slight tingly painful feeling flooding my arm like a wildfire, like an avalanche, hitting me all at once. I wince a little with every scratch.. It hurts.. But I want more.. I scratch and scratch and scratch, like I'm scratching a lottery ticket and hoping for a prize. It hurts more with every scratch, and I find myself pausing, holding my arm for a moment, feeling the way it's warm from the friction. And as I zone out, as I clench my jaw while I think about anything, and everything, and nothing at all, I itch again.. And again.. And again, it still hurts.. But I feel like I can’t stop.. Like I need more. Like I want more.. I look down at my arm, red, with hundreds of scratches lined up from my wrist to my elbow. It burns badly now.. It feels like I’d be bleeding but when I look there's nothing, just the redness and irritation of my skin. But for now, I'll cover them up, hiding them from others' eyes. I don’t want their sympathy, their pity, I hide how much I want to roll my sleeve back up and itch again and again.. And the cycle always repeats itself, again.. And again.. And again. Until I feel satisfied.. Except, I never do..
Again, sorry if you can relate! D:
