VIII. a note on self-injury. let me be the first to tell you that cutting doesn't bring about the same pain that an accidental slice, abrasion, wound, or nick does.VIII. a note on self-injury.7 years ago in Academic Essays
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relief, calm, focus, release, yes-
but pain? hardly.
a doctor might tell you that the two wounds are the same. but any cutter will tell you that no other scrape or cut will run as read, as true- with as much force as that which is self-inflicted.
a cut, you see, is perfect. it's kind. it's understanding. it washes away all chaos and emotional turmoil with beads of red (and if you're deep enough, mahogany) that quickly join and run down the length of your arm.
a cut is simple. predictable. the slice, the bite. the blood. the scab. the itching the next day. the eventual scarring. the fading. and when you can no longer see the angry marks, the inexplicable and undeniable urge to make them appear again.
even your excuses are bland a
She wears hypocrisy.She doesn't sleep anymore because the daysShe wears hypocrisy.5 years ago in Free Verse
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slide by when she doesn't have to think, and
it's easier to function when the faces blur and
memories wash together until her life becomes
one large rinsed out sentiment that she may
or may not remember. She doesn't know who
she is anymore, but honestly, who cares.
Sunday afternoon brings those fat red capsules
to keep her company, and monday morning calls
on little white pills that no body will see. Those
are the secrets she hides in her drawers, saving
until the wounds heal and the pressure starts
building. And pow. Like an explosion. Once, she
tried to tell you, explain to you her fireworks, but
you're too wrapped up in yourself to notice a
cry for help, anyway.
She crept through the window one night while the
rain fell, and made it to Pontiac before the sun rose
and the chemicals began to fade. They knew where
to find her; she has no where else to go. And if you
ask them of it now, they'll lie. She's perfect.
She breaks hearts, and