I cut myself. Once. I felt empty. Or worse, I felt a piece of rubbish. Alone. No love. Nothing. Just empty.

And all this frustration, all this loneliness, all empty. I was empty, nothing inside, nothing outside, just void. I am empty, i am empty, i am empty, if i concentrate hard enough i will disappear, empty, nothing, silence.

And something started to grow inside of me.

Frustration

I can’t escape. Void is stronger than me. I lose. And i could feel physically this animal growing inside me, i could hear it, feel how it moved inside me, starving, consuming me, since the deepest part of myself getting to the surface, just under my skin where i could even touch it.

I felt contaminate, dirty, infected. And more frustrated, because it was nothing i could do to escape, to find the exit. And nobody to help me, i am in my own…

in my own

“your problems are your problems”

My problems…
…my problems

So i did it. I just wanted to sink, touch bottom and feel my pain with all its intensity. To die of sorrow. It was with my father’s razor blade and i wrote down “my problem” just up my left knee. And it felt fucking good. I liked it, i loved it, i fucking loved it. I started writing with shaking hand, insecure, sitting down on the bathroom, freezing my legs and back because of the tiles, but with the first superficial cut a calm, warm, sensation cover my body, since the depths, just were the void has been one before. The taste of blood came up to my mouth and i savoured it. Oh yeah, it felt fucking good. My hand got the razor blade firmly and the cuts gained depth and size.

When i finished i stayed in there, sitting down on the bathroom floor, caressing the bleeding letters in my leg and thinking about what i was doing with my life.

I never did it again, I knew it was foolish, wrong, immature, and useless. The truth is that i felt pride of my scar. I get used to caress the wound and looked at it alone in my room, with a strange feeling of pride because nobody knew about that, it was mine, my secret, my secret bleeding heart and nobody else knew it. During two years i couldn’t go to the beach or show my legs because against my extremely white and clear skin, the letters shone as if freshly done.

But it wasn’t me, it was just one dark part of me. And now I am another person. No scars, no empty.