A Thousand Little Paper Cuts

The first line doesn't hurt. The second line doesn't hurt. The third line doesn't hurt. Everything is starting to leak out of me. I start to feel that familiarity of relief. I don't have to be perfect for the blade in front of me. Bittersweet lines that only I can find understanding in. I drag the blade a little bit deeper. A white pain follows the blade as I lift it away. The pain comes as a welcomed escape from everything that had pooled inside of me. The edges of reality begin to bleed away, mingling with the blood soaked town that's laid down in front of me. I'm not bothered by the rust that decorates areas of the blade. The trials and tribulations of my life are etched into my flesh, privy to everyone who lays eyes on me. The scar tissues hides layers of secrets, self-hatred and methods of escape.They only see the surface flare-ups, unaware of the meaning behind it all. My voice shakes as I stuggle to explain what drove me to this point of self-destruction once again. The blood drips down my arm as I struggle to raise the glass again. Driven to any means to dull this pain. Being self-aware has brought nothing other than bloodshed. The world falls away from me and I enter a deep state of relaxation. Nothing feels real anymore. Nothing freels at all. It's the calmest I've ever been. Well, that I can remember up to this point. It feels like I am floating in the dead sea. I am weightless. Only my conscience can breathe. Stepping outside my body I feel as though I am a child of the air; floating and free. Floating to the surface of what feels like a crystal lake, I'm surrounded by the palest of blues. I know that I'm breathing. I feel that I am. My heartbeat is slow my constant in my veins. I can feel the gentle puslasions of life being pumped through me with each beat of my heart. The weight of the world is lifted from my shoulders with each stroke of the blade. Three lines becomes six lines. Six lines becomes twelve lines. Before I know it, I've lost control of myself, reaching for that freedom, that ability to breathe without restriction is what I'm reaching for. This is my method of transpor. But I would be a liar and a hypocrite if I didn't admit that I am a glutton for the punishment. It's my judge, jury and executioner. I hide behind the relief it provides me, unable to face the hatred that bubbles beneath the surface of the blade; the tourment that is hidden in every line, every stroke and every breath. Inhale, exhale, the desire to punish myself for my short-comings, failures and even the simpliest mistakes circulates through my system like a systemic infection. Intoxicated on the idea that I need punishment to reserrect my failures. Pain was the way I was taught to learn from my mistakes. The fear of pain taught me to lie and manupilate a system that is rigged against the mentally ill. It taught me to hide everything away from judgement and prying eyes. Withdrawing farther into myself in the hopes that if I go deep enough, I will reach a point that is completely void of anything.