I can hear the blade cutting into my soul I wanna scream in pain Why do I do this? I ask myself But I don’t have the answer Should've known I was too messed up for you now look what I’ve done All I can do Is cut deeper and deeper Watch the blood trickling down my leg It’s everything I deserve I’d cut myself from this earth If I could
acting is a lot easier than people let you believe. First you pick a person, some sort of simple, easy, fun-loving personality some range of phrases for said personality mixed in with reactions of course, and BAM you got the gist. my character is funny in the way that they're sort of me. I'm very fake. I've got this habit, you see, this habit of smiling and laughing. "it's fine, it's funny we're laughing." I'm the therapist, they come to me, I help. I collect shards and paste them together abandoning my own flayed pieces, ignoring my own shattered self. But that's okay! See that's okay!! Because J! J! J doesn't mind being stepped on! OH ** **! J DOESN'T MIND BEING USED AND TORMENTED! NO NO CONTINUE PLEASE! J doesn't MIND only being talked to when others need something! Please, go ON! Because J! J WILL LET YOU? and why? maybe it's the separation anxiety or abandonment issues or the fear of being alone in a general way or a fear of being hated maybe it's because J is so ****** use to being treated like a ******* DOORMAT! that it doesn't even phase them anymore it doesn't even matter anymore it's part of the normal world day-to-day life! . . . I smile a lot. I laugh a lot. More than most. More than I should. Some would argue that it's simply too much am I trying too hard with it? is it somehow obvious? . . . I left my first period to the bathroom. and proceeded to sit down on the hate this word and yet i couldn't cry? WHY? someone else was in the bathroom. I wanted NEEDED some sort of a break and yet J and yet I I could not give myself leniency. Even alone even if the person there didn't matter. So when she left, a shed I still could not cry and i split skin instead. I had planned it for a while nowhere near deep enough of course couldn't be caught bleeding all around the school. I had my blades in the bag, I tucked them into my pocket. some of the juice splattered itself onto tile floor onto blue jeans onto hate this word paper wrapping itself around my arms, pleading with me to please, please stop. but who the **** cares because . . . I smile a lot.
you dont deserve the attention the scrapes and scars on my body are not yours my trauma is not a day dream; nothing to praise the food you put in front of me is not a snack; more like a meal the voices in my head are not scary they are nonchalantly wondering everyday you dont deserve the attention my life is not yours so stop pretending it is the dried blood upon my wrists at night is not your DNA trauma is not meant to be shared