Slice of Life 🔪

It comes out of nowhere. I know that it's bubbling up from somewhere deep inside. It's been inside for so long. I can't keep holding it all inside. The iscolation that's plaguing me is something that hasn't bubbled up in the longest time. I've been supressing the feelings for the longest time, swallowing them with each sip of diet coke. Hiding behind a carefully constructed smile. Too afraid to take a stand. Afraid that if I open my mouth I will face a level of rejection that I'm not prepared to face. Talking about it will only make it worse. I hold my silence day after day while the rage boils inside me. It's not just the pain of iscolation that's starting to come to the surface. It's all coming to a head. It's not fair. What did I ever do wrong? Is it my desperation? Maybe they just don't want to be sucked down into my sadness. I need to breathe. My chest is tight. It feels like I'm on the verge of bursting into tears. I don't want to be that guy. I don't want to be weak. I can't show this weakness to anyone else. They'll take advantage of it, just as they always do. I feel my stomach knot. The rage at others that I can't express is melting,turning into a poison that creeps through my veins. This almost always happens. Even when I'm on the verge of frenzy, it's those around me I continue to put before myself, despite knowing that they are the cause of what's about to transpire. Is it that hard to extend an invitation? Especially when you're aware a friend has been struggling? It's time. I need to know your cooling kiss once again. Each butterfly kiss is comforting. I'm expressing all that I'm unable to put into words. All the things that I hate about myself and others are now exposed for the world to see. But will they understand the message in the medium? Even in words clear as day there are those who fail to understand what I'm trying to express. Sometimes it feels as if I'm trapped in an alternate reality and there is not a single person who speaks my language. My hands don't shake. I have complete control this time. Full consent of the will. A part of me actually likes that I do this. It's taken me a while to realise this. I like the act of dragging a razor into my skin. It's more than just the chemical rush that roars to the surface each time I pull the sleep blade out of the box. It's so easy to come across razor blades. And to think as a child I was so silly as to use broken glass. Those were the days. Smashing a picture frame to steal the sharpest chards out off the floor. And no one noticing. Practicing skills of deception. In all reality, I didn't really hide the act. I'd cut year round and walk around with my arms exposed. There have only been a handful of times that I really covered up the things I was doing to myself. It used to be a lot worse than it is now. Acts far and few between were once daily rituals that fell somewhere between romantic and obsession. No part of my body was off limits. Upper thighs became wrists. Wrists became entire arms. Entire arms became entire chest. Chest became stomach. I became addicted on the act, believing that this is the only thing that I deserve. I became encased in scar tissue so that I wouldn't have to feel the things I was too weak or too ashamed to feel. I carved all sorts of hatred into my body. I opened wounds, sprayed cuts with hair spray and challenged myself to new, deeper and dangerous ways of getting my fix. To some degree it's the only thing that I have to believe in. Everyone always leaves me eventually. I swallow the pain of abandoment and fill the empty spaces with self-inflicted wounds. I can't bring myself to regret the acts of self-mutilation. I'm strangely proud of the scars that cover my entire form. It shows that I'm a surviour. Slice after slice. I'm becoming less careful. I've reached that point of no return that I haven't been to in almost 10 years. I cut around tattoos on my stomach, working to create new works of art. Sore and oozing ladder rungs make their way around script on my thigh. Script that oddly enough displays a message of love, one of that was never returned to me. I know exactly what I'm doing. I'm filling the emptiness of the void to cutting. Trading one pain for another is one thing that I've learned to excel at. I collapse into a ball, holding my bleeding wrist to my chest. I don't know what I'm supposed to do with myself. I have myself tucked into a place that I haven't been in a while. I don't know where this self-harming urge is blossoming from. I've been clean for the longest time. It's beyond obscene and I'm aware that there is a part of me that should be ashamed, but I just can't bring myself to be. I'm captivated and swayed by the beautiful hue of red that is escaping from me. The carpet is destroyed. There is no coming back from the blood stains on this bad boy. I can't focus on that. The pools on the carpet are black with scarlet edges. They don't look like anything I've ever seen before. The darkness constrasts the vibrance in the most poetic way. Drip. Drip. Drip. New puddles turn to rivers that only add to the existing stains. As many times as I've gone through this process of self-harming, it's become almost something of a ritual once again Even though it's been months since my last encounter with the sharp silver prince that brings painless relief to the most poisonous of agonies. It's in moments like this that I can lay it all out in front of me. I can physically see all of the pain that's being held inside. I know it's real. And in some ways it feels like pure validation. I'm proving to myself that I've endured another day, another week, another month, another year. I'm about to enter my third decade on this planet and it hardly seems real. I've seen so much, done so much...sometimes it feels like all there is left is dying.