Twenty Lines
A cut to make you feel. A cut to help you heal. A cut to help remember.
I wonder if any of the others would be surprised about my cutting. It's not something you'd expect a strong person to do. But then again, I've been through hell enough to break the strongest of men. I don't think they know that I have those blades that I use hidden in our very room. They are back there, in that crack in the wall behind my bed. I unintentionally made that crack in the wall after a frustrating day full of Snape, Quidditch, and one Draco Malfoy.
I don't use the blades regularly. They just help me on anniversaries of painful days. Like the day my parents were killed. I have fourteen scars on my arms for that. Seven on each arm. Now I have recently added the cut for the day Cedric was killed. There's only one so far.
Then there are another five scars. Each one of those is for the day Draco Malfoy extended his hand promising to help me. And I turned him down.
Twenty scars in perfect lines down the inside of my arms and on my thighs.
A cut to make me feel.
Those hard days are the worst. When we don't have classes I stay in my bed most of the day and just allow Ron to bring me food. I never eat any of it, but it's a kind gesture all the same. I usually take a blade and mutilate the food pretending it's my own skin, or sometimes Draco's. There's a fine line between love and hate. But I think I have somehow discovered how to straddle that line perfectly.
I hate the arrogant prat as much as I absolutely want, and need, him. He looks so cold and yet I am almost certain that his touch would be blistering hot. All I want is for him to touch me softly and caress me. Yet I have this animalistic urge to bite and scratch and tear. Hurt him and rip him and break him. Taste his blood and feast on his skin.
I would never touch his hair though. It's perfect and nearly white in its perfection. Pure.
A cut to heal.
That's why I hurt myself instead. I cut myself each day on September 1st, the day from when I turned him down on the train. If I didn't cut myself I wouldn't be able to contain this destructive urge to just destroy him. Beautiful Draco. How many times have I imagined smearing your mutilated face with your blood? How many times have I dreamed of simply tearing you apart? Far too many.
Cutting is the only way to keep it in check as the feelings get especially volatile on September 1st.
A cut to remember.
A cut to make you feel. A cut to help you heal. A cut to help remember.
I wonder if any of the others would be surprised about my cutting. It's not something you'd expect a strong person to do. But then again, I've been through hell enough to break the strongest of men. I don't think they know that I have those blades that I use hidden in our very room. They are back there, in that crack in the wall behind my bed. I unintentionally made that crack in the wall after a frustrating day full of Snape, Quidditch, and one Draco Malfoy.
I don't use the blades regularly. They just help me on anniversaries of painful days. Like the day my parents were killed. I have fourteen scars on my arms for that. Seven on each arm. Now I have recently added the cut for the day Cedric was killed. There's only one so far.
Then there are another five scars. Each one of those is for the day Draco Malfoy extended his hand promising to help me. And I turned him down.
Twenty scars in perfect lines down the inside of my arms and on my thighs.
A cut to make me feel.
Those hard days are the worst. When we don't have classes I stay in my bed most of the day and just allow Ron to bring me food. I never eat any of it, but it's a kind gesture all the same. I usually take a blade and mutilate the food pretending it's my own skin, or sometimes Draco's. There's a fine line between love and hate. But I think I have somehow discovered how to straddle that line perfectly.
I hate the arrogant prat as much as I absolutely want, and need, him. He looks so cold and yet I am almost certain that his touch would be blistering hot. All I want is for him to touch me softly and caress me. Yet I have this animalistic urge to bite and scratch and tear. Hurt him and rip him and break him. Taste his blood and feast on his skin.
I would never touch his hair though. It's perfect and nearly white in its perfection. Pure.
A cut to heal.
That's why I hurt myself instead. I cut myself each day on September 1st, the day from when I turned him down on the train. If I didn't cut myself I wouldn't be able to contain this destructive urge to just destroy him. Beautiful Draco. How many times have I imagined smearing your mutilated face with your blood? How many times have I dreamed of simply tearing you apart? Far too many.
Cutting is the only way to keep it in check as the feelings get especially volatile on September 1st.
A cut to remember.