help.

Another breakdown. The sobs just rip out of me and the need to hurt is so strong. I can't speak, I can't look at myself in the mirror. I hate myself. I disgust myself.

I need to learn to love myself. But it's so hard.

I pray for help because I don't want to be alone. The blade stayed put but I used my own hands to break the skin, crying, begging my wrist to open up. Open up. Open up.

Open up.

But a small miracle happened. I prayed for help, and I received. All those horrible thoughts that ran rampant in my head stopped. They were muffled and I couldn't bring them back up. It was beautiful silence, a quiet calm, so peaceful. Thank you. He took it away and I was able to sleep. I stopped crying instantly. And I could sleep.

I was just so tired.

Thank you.

smooth.

You look so peacful with your eyes closed. Hands running across my arms and back, your mouth twitches with pleasure. Eyes flutter open and you look right into me, deeper and deeper you go. Smooth, slow, warmth spreading through both of us. Breathing is low and hot, there is no stopping now. One night of bliss, one night of sin.

Love, you have all of me so please don't break me.

calling.

It's been 4.5 months since I've hurt myself, or rather, since I cut myself. Wrist banging counts as hurting. The cutting is still hard to control, although this is the longest stretch ever since I started seven years ago. My body has spilt it's share of blood.

I'm going to admit, right now, that I am addicted to cutting.I'm in love with it; Action and idea. The white lines that lace my skin call out to me and ask for more. I need more. Just a few more, then I will be done. One long pretty one for my arm, maybe with some smaller ones criss-crossing back and forth, back and forth white stripes that blossom red, spilling over and down my arms, warm red like a lover's caress.

This is a problem. I can't let myself do it, but it's like a drug and it leaves me shaking and crying and begging on the ground. "Let it tear, let it tear" I cry, but there is a part of me, I'm split in two, that holds me fast, stays my hand. I don't let me cut it out. I don't let me feel the red even though I want it more than anything.

Not anything, there is something I want more. So much more, that I'm willing to stop trying to stop.

But my arms are calling...

bloodless breakdown.

I haven't been feeling my best this week, mentally and emotionally. Last night I must have been tired because I broke down after he left. The urge to cut open my skin was so bad but I was able to keep myself from sharp objects and get to bed before I did some damage. I think that is the key there, or at least it helps. Make myself fall aleep before things get worse.

The cutting is no doubt an addiction and although my scars are hard to hide and to explain, I find that I like them now and I want more. More and worse ones. I don't think this is a cry for attention, I just love the way the white stripes cross my arms, my back, my shoulders. They tell a story and they are like art and my body is my canvas. I know I shouln't be ruining my body. It was created for me to use and to protect and to cherish. A body is part of the reason why we came to the earth anyway. But I went and got addicted to the pain, the red that follows, and the white reminders that are left behind.

I hope I get better, but part of me hopes I carry this with me always because it's a part of me now, but a crutch. I know I need to be strong enough to get rid of it, and so far I've been doing reasonable well. The last time I cut myself was April 12, 2012. It's been 2.5 months. Let's see how long I can keep this up.

red.

Red. A warning color designed by God for man. Red means stop. Red means injury. Red means warning.

I have come to love red. Red is an addiction that drips from my arms into the ivory sink. It fades from its angry mark to a pale pink, to a reminder of red. A whisper.

Red caresses my skin like a urgent lover. Opening my skin to let out my love.

My love drips red.

11/09/10

White-Knuckled Driving
Ooh its rage, baby, that lights me up inside, makes me burn. Jaw set tight and fingers grip the wheel. White knuckles like back when I was starting to drive. Stare straight forward, don't you say a word. I can handle an awkward silence, can you?
  When you're placed there with the decision, to do or not to do? You usually do. Or at least I. I, with my passion, my lust, my fire that seems unquenchable, untameable. I hope those are real words.
  Creativity likes to dance around me. Through my head, sparking an idea then back out my fingertips before I have time to trap it into media. It teases and agitates me. Body, don't you disobey me, don't be temperamental."I don't feel like it today". Well too bad, I'm picking up the pencil so you better get started.
  I'm feeling that restlessness again. That creeping sensation that starts in the back of my head and works its way down over my body. Something new to explore? A mouth to taste? A road to walk, or drive, in my case. I'm not allowed to walk by myself.
  So now when you're holding on to wrist, no, my ankle. Dragging me with you, I want to fly, to keep walking somewhere new. This is not where I'm supposed to end up, I know that, so don't you dare glue me to my spot.
  Don't you dare.

your lips.

I thought just once would be nice. Let's rekindle that old flame just for the sake of the heat. You wrap your arms around me and suddenly there is no where else I'd rather be. Pull me close and hold me tight. Your lips are just as I remembered, maybe even warmer.

I thought you were the one who would get addicted to me, but this took me off guard. I'm craving you now, something I haven't felt in years, and the worst part is I think you don't even care. I was just another mouth, another touch, another body to be warm next to yours.

I'm dying inside now, and I blame you. Jealousy is taking over and any thought of another near you makes me burn.

You haven't talked to me since.
I need you.
I need you out of my head
...before I explode.