It's been a few years, since I picked up that blade determined to slice the sadness out of my viens. Ridges and indentions of scar tissue litter my body. Yet, even now, when I get really down, I still want to add to my collection. I am starkly aware that it's not right, not at all; but, nothing else works quite as well. Besides... perhaps it's a punishment, too. One that I deserve.
there's nothing romantic about stinging, shaking legs and a still silence surrounding lovers that creates screams in their heads -- where did i go wrong i'm such an idiot there's nothing beautiful about blood and self-loathing, insecurities and guilt. there's no turning around. there's only moving forward. and maybe they'll both be different, but they'll probably stay the same. and there's nothing -- nothing -- pretty about that.