it is ironic
That if someone, let's say, stops drinking
or even doing drugs;
People tell them they are proud of them.
I'm proud of you for overcoming that.
Cutting never gets the same treatment. It's like it's a taboo, inhumane practice, not an addiction like the rest.
Or for, daresay, attention.
But from one who knows, it's just as hard to kick. I don't think there's not a sad or angry moment when my thoughts flicker to that knife in the cherrywood box, in the dark drawer in my bathroom. The handle is ornate and designed with a train logo, for my father's train company. The blade is approximately five to eight inches long.
Everytime my body gets wet, everytime I sit in the cream white tub and soak, the scars blush a mahogany red and I cannot count them on both hands. I can't even count them on two hands. They cover my body in tiny slices, overlapping.
And nobody's proud that I've stopped. But if I start, then it's a horrible thing.
So why stop if nobody cares that I'm not?
[Why should I miss harming myself? I don't know. I just ache for it sometimes.]
Does anybody want to hang out this weekend
I am lonely
I am always lonely these days