Sometimes it feels like the only thing I could do is to scrape away at the skin on my body. It's not a big deal, it's not like I'm killing myself. Skin heals, it's not a statement to anybody. It's just how I feel, and it's written on my body, every pent up emotion *cut* every unwanted memory *cut* for every day stuck in this God forsaken hole with out happiness *cut cut cut*. And before you know it, you're staring at all the glowing pink lines on your wrists thinking, Damn it's over. But little girl, you don't know how wrong you are. You're far past the start, and you're too far away from the edge, you're standing in the middle with no where to go. You're thoughts aren't "I don't know if I can do it." they're "I don't know if I can't do it." And yes, it does scare me that I think that. But for some reason it's comforting to know that I have an outlet. I think my stubborness is controlling me, saying that I refuse to feel better until what I need to happen, happens. And the cuts on my wrists just represent the fact that it probably won't.
So, am I sorry I did?
Honestly I don't know.
If someone could save me, right now would be the right time.
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