As effortlessly as the ink on the page starts to fade with age, I watch the flames burning. Twisting cruelly, the flames burn away the edges, and it all goes away. Nothing can bring time back, but nothing can erase the past. The words cut deep, they bite. Like blood flowing out of open wounds, the feelings all pour out. All the times I wanted to bury everything, the words would come back again. Always haunting me, they whirled around me, cutting deep. I know the scars will never fade, so I embrace them; they are me. As I watch the blood swirling in the emotions, all I see is the blank gray wall. I have managed finally to put up my walls, and hide it all. Bury the emotions, and hide all the pain. Just keep up the walls, put on the mask, and face the world. The flames start to lick at the corners of the letter, and as I watch it burn, I see the world before my eyes. The kiss of death, always trying to haunt me, does not know it is my strongest comfort. If only it was all over, and all would be calm. The end coming to take away all that could be lost. Away is the place where we all need to be. Just in the time of it, we all will find a way. In all we are hoping, to just let it stay. In all we are hoping, for it to go away. The darkness will come for me. The darkness will hide everything. Shrouded in the gray mist, leaning against the trees, all the time only wanting to disappear. Just give me a reason to stay. Just let the end come and take us away. All the times. All the times I wanted to try. To prove that I am alive. I am sorry, but I can't be perfect. I want to say that I am me. But I cannot try to stop. A way of coping. A way to balance the pain of living. Just let me go away. Just let me go away. Fading away, into the gray. All the ways alone in the world. Someone to save me. Save me from myself. Falling apart. Crumbling slowly, like the walls around me. Equalize the inside and the outside. Just let it all out, and let it fall apart. Falling apart, like the wind blowing inwards, all around me, like the end going outside. Save me. The blade against my skin. It gives me comfort, I give it blood. Quite expensive, the price keeps rising, but I will give anything, for that moment of numbness. A way of coping. Watching the blood drip slowly down my wrist. The cool blade, a flash against my arm. Slowly, firmly. Quick and angry. Sometimes its guilt. Now that I've started, I just can't stop. Because to feel the pain brings numbness, the numbness I crave. It's so addictive. I can't bear the thought of stopping. How to hide the scars? The scratches on my wrist heal. But the cuts leave a mark. My beautiful scars. But I can't let anyone see. But the scratches are not enough anymore. Once I saw the blood on my arm, the beautiful red line, I knew I needed it. I don't know why I am writing this, but I need to let it out. This is too permanent; I don't trust that much. But I need to get it out, so here it is. Here I am. I need this, because I am falling apart. The guilt. I feel like a fraud. I don't deserve anything. That's why I do it sometimes. As a punishment, because that is what I deserve. I deserve the pain. Sometimes I am angry, quite the opposite of guilt. Odd how the brain works. I need to release my anger, and this is the only way. Sometimes I do it, because it is the only thing I can control. Sometimes, I need to prove that I am alive. When I feel the pain, see the blood, I know I'm alive. Ironic, how sometimes, the only reason I do it is to feel, but other times, I do it for the numbness. That amazing moment, free from all burdens. The blade gives me comfort, and I can't resist its charms. The pain takes away the hurt, and that is all I need. Just give in, can't resist the temptation. The feeling, when I run the blade against my skin. I used to just leave scratches, long, beautiful white lines, slowly turning red. Parallel lines on my wrists, they were beautiful. Convenient, too, because they would heal by the time I would do it again, and one or two scratches could have been explained as an accident. But then I saw the knife, lying there, teasing me. I tried to resist, but I knew I needed it. The first time I drew blood. I knew I was in over my head, but the beauty of it: I did not care. I do not care. About anything. It makes life so much easier to live. I need to do it again, but no one can see. The one small cut on my arm won't look suspicious. But I need more. I wonder how they will heal. Watching the different stages. Watching it draw the beautiful, thin white line. Watching it turn a beautiful red. I know that will be gone by tomorrow. But I need more. The blade gives me more when I give it blood. The small cut looks so strong. Thin, red, against my skin. The pain lasted longer, and gave me relief. I need more. I wonder how it will heal. I am new at this. Well, I have been doing it for months now, but this was the first one I would consider an actual cut. On purpose, anyways. Some of the other scratches with the blade bled when I was angry enough. But this was different. I pushed it deeper. Watched as the skin broke. Saw the thin line. Watched as a drop of blood dripped out. Slowly, intentionally, pulling the blade. The pain took longer to come, I was just too stunned to notice. Part of me was scared, worried I was going too far, knowing this was not right, that I should not do this. But part of me did not care, I was in control. Part of me was excited, I felt alive. My blood was red, like everybody else's. I bled, and I had to be alive to bleed, so something I knew had broken the indifference. I felt something. And I felt it longer this time. When the blade drew blood, it comforted me for the rest of the night. Right after I did it, while I washed my arm, I looked in the mirror. I was terrified, of what I was doing, of what I had become. All the emotions came rushing back. So just focused on my cut, on the pain, and it all got better. Just forget about the feelings, focus on the pain, and life becomes bearable. Stress melts away with each swipe of the blade. The pressure pours out with every drop of blood. The pressure to be perfect. Well guess what, everyone, I am far from it! Sorry I could not be perfect. The guilt drives me to cut, and I feel better. But I feel more guilty, so I cut again. The endless cycle. Part of me knows it is wrong, that I should never have started. But part of me loves this. And the main part of me, the one that scares me the most, does not care. The dangerous indifference, perhaps the most polar of all. I do this, it's who I am. I need this. The craving is too strong. So I take the blade to my skin. I watch the blood drip down my wrist. As the blood pours out, life flows in. The cool blade against my skin. The sharp edge against the cut. Pushing deeper, dragging it across. Purposely pulling it, deeper, until the I see the blood. The cut just sits there, as I watch it form. As I form them. Perfect, parallel thin lines, standing red against my skin. Firmly, the blade sinks into my wrist. This is the only way. Now as I lie in bed, I just need to cut. I need it so badly. The blade is so near, but I am not alone, and I am going crazy. I need another blade, one that is mine. One that I can use every time. Sharper, so that I can cut neater. Just let me be alone. Watching the blade gleam against my skin, watching the blood drip down my wrist, the pain takes all the hurt away.