I finally did it, I cut myself. I don't know how long I sat there and stared at the shiney silver blade. At first it started as only a small cut, but it suited my need. They soon became long, deep, jagged cuts. To feel the pain somewhere other than my heart was kind of a comfort.
I can remember how I would feel when my father would beat me. I can still feel each crack of the hard leather across my back snapping me back to a painful reality. For a long time it kept me awake to the world, fearful, deepening my depression. Will he hurt me tonight, or will he simply pass out on the couch and forget all about me? These questions plagued my mind day in, day out.
It's hard to think of my past pains as I watch them slowly flow out from the veins, from the horrid cuts that now litter my pale arm. Each new slice I make, I see his face, I feel the abuse and the humiliation. I remember never wanting nothing to do with anyone. I didn't care if I were ever loved, I just wanted to be alone. I wanted to be cut off from the world, to just disapear into nothing. Now I crave to be seen, crave to be touched. How long must I distance myself from those around me? Why must I always be alone?
As I sit and watch the blood slowly flow down my arm, down my fingers, and drip to the floor, I contemplate these things. My thoughts and my feelings now flowing from my veins, the release I can not give them from my mind. Will I ever be free from these memories, from my feelings? I may not have the answers to these questions, but for now, I revel in the temporary release.