Certain parts of me are dying.
I know which ones even if you aren't sure.
Different reasons for doing the same things.
Does that change anything?
Cutter, still a cutter.
Not going to vomit up everything on a platter
And have it dissected anymore.
I might do it, or I might not do it.
Might write about it, or might not.
Might be little light lines, or ones that make you cringe.
I am so obsessed with documentation,
But I'm not going to document this anymore.
I don't want it to turn into those three months
Where I said everything, counted lines, and wrote about everything that made me sad.
Killing monsters.
That's what I'm doing.
It's not the kind of thing people ask about.
"Oh hey, how's your cutting thing going?"
Killing monsters.
Killing questions.
"Was just reading up on your blog, and you said you lost a lot of blood last night."
Don't ask. Don't tell.
Funny how we reclaim phrases and words.
le fin.
...
Chere mort,
I thought I was changing. I thought I was growing. That there were shoots from seeds of life growing up among the cut, bleeding skin. That this little growth had been waiting for years to emerge. We are getting better, not worse. We wonder why we fall into these moments of sadness, but aren't we getting better? I'm a deer, remember? A deer.
Kill the bad parts, not the good ones. Rub away the dry, scabbed skin, and make room for new flesh. You have monsters, and everyone has monsters. The point isn't to kill them, but to have them alongside the other things that make you who you are.
Cut, and you will cut more. Cut more, and then you will cut even more. Cut and you will become that shaky girl again. That girl who falls to tears on the floor of the bathroom at 4:35am with a book in her hand and a knife in the other. That girl who contemplates both equally, but really knowing which one she will choose.
The girl with red streaks down her leg. Red fingerprints from trying to wipe it all away. Fingerprints that mark up beige towels and bathtubs, and aren't easily destroyed.
You don't want to be the girl who doesn't like herself. The girl who has no desire, who literally has to cut and tear feelings out of her body because she doesn't want any of them anymore. You were all these girls before.
You are ready to cope with the world like a real person. Give up your blades. Give it up. Throw them out. Give them away.
ton amie,
vie
...
Chere vie,
I am scared. I'm really scared of everything, and I am also a little scared that I am talking to myself like this right now. I don't know if many people talk to themselves like this, and it is probably a symptom of some sort of split personality or anxiety disorder. That would make a lot of sense, but it wouldn't justify my doing this.
What the fuck am I doing?
Nothing.
Not doing anything important.
Not doing anything meaningful.
Cutting feels safe.
Cutting feels strong.
Cutting feels like it will protect me from everything.
It is running away, while being right here.
I know this is very sixteen year old girl of me right now.
Twenty somethings shouldn't cut themselves.
We should have grown out of it by now.
I don't know who I am.
At least I knew who I was when I was that girl, those girls.
Those quivering, crying, bleeding girls.
cette fille,
mort
...
[And I could continue writing this forever. I feel very post-modern right now, and strange. I don't have the time to keep going, and I wonder how I even made it this far in writing all of this. I always question myself by talking to myself. I need to be around other people more. All these inside my head thoughts aren't good for me. Yet, when I get home, I put on music and go in my room and think. My restless thoughts and lack of concentration are becoming an illness. I must try really hard to be social in the next few days.]
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