There has always been something wrong with me, not that anyone can see it.
Even when they do get a glimpse of it, they just brush it off like its nothing.
"Oh Wendy!" My mother was always the root of my problems, not that she meant to be. "Why do you do this to yourself? You have such pretty skin."
I know I have pretty skin mother, I've seen more of it than you could ever understand. I've seen it from the inside. She really meant well, but you know addicts, everything's always about them.
How could THEIR lives be so difficult?
Why are the drugs THEY like so expensive?
Why does it have to be HER daughter that ended up the freak?
As I sat quietly as I often do late nights and I ran the blade over my arm again, rocking it on the parts of my wrists where my bones protruded my skin. I watched as my scars reopened and ran down my arm and onto my bedroom floor. I could feel my heart racing as I drug my dulling razor down my already badly broken flesh.
I am not at all finished.
There is a thirst inside me, one that can only be quenched when my blood runs on the outside.
You don't have to say it.
I already know.
What I fail to understand is why it is socially acceptable to be a drug addict but not a cutter.
"Wendy, drug addicts aren't constantly trying to end their lives."
Well, they most certainly don't have to try. Had I wanted to end my life, I would have to want it so badly I could taste it.
I would have to take this blade and put it through my arm. People over dose and die accidentally every day. Last time I checked, I've never heard of anyone who "accidentally" sliced their wrist the wrong way and found the golden ticket to the big chocolate factory in the sky.
If I wanted to die, I would. Simple as that.
I put my finger in a puddle and ran it over the hard wood so it looked like an angry sunset seeping into my bedroom floor. I drew in a red crescent moon and even a couple stars off to the left, there. Right there. That one. That one is my star.
I must confess, I feel like a monster sometimes. When you hear about little girls cutting themselves its something big and traumatic.
My Daddy doesn't love me.
My Mommy's on drugs.
My Boyfriend beat me up last night.
I woke up without pants on.
I think I have a concussion.
Not me. I do it because I like it. I'm ashamed, really.
I hate it when people see them and try to pity me. Like they don't even know who I am and here they are trying to pity me.
"Wendy, you're not a monster!" I was always jealous of Lily. Unfortunate she wasn't very bright. "You're a good person."
I don't care weather or not you live or die. Doesn't that make me a monster?
Don't tell me there isn't a monster inside me. I can feel it breathing with my lungs, I can taste the way it craves my blood and I can tell it will only keep growing. I absentmindedly cut stars into my arms as I lay on my floor. There's a beast in me and I can't control it. I love it, it is the only thing in this world that understands me. When it takes over its like waves of tingling ecstasy; like a drug is washing away all the pain. All the rage. All the guilt from not feeling guilty.
There was a boy who understood me once, he was-
Lets just say he was all too ready to let his shadows take him away from this sick place.
He often told me that just because you had a demon inside you, the fact alone didn't inherently make you a monster yourself.
He was wrong. Monsters don't like to live with little girls who tell them they won't give them anything they want.
In the end this monster is the only one who really cares about me anymore. It never tells me I'm sick or asks me to stop. He holds my hand as I give in to the monster I am growing in too. I don't mind. Its just easier this way. While you lie cold and alone in a bed that's too big for one person, I remain happy all by myself.
Even when someday I make the same bed Shadow Boy made, my demons will keep my bones warm; Just as I keep their cravings at bay, they give me a comfort you don't get from another human being. The kind of comfort you get when you take the first bite from a warm biscuit, or the last sip of tea. The kind of comfort you get when you finger paint bleeding sunsets on your mothers new hard wood flooring.
A comfort that only comes when you try to kill your pain a little more...
Directly.
I felt something in my heart break as my thoughts rested on the Shadow Boy's head stone.
It had stars too.
The star on my arm has become too muddled in blood to see where I'm carving.
I think about my mother. My poor innocent mother. She thought his death was a tragic accident.
Its hilarious, really.
I take my blade and in one swift movement I slice from the top of my wrist straight down through my star, all the way to my elbow joint. I watched as it streamed onto the floor in rivers. Like the clouds gave up on rain and just dropped buckets of this slick red wonder onto the floors of my childhood. I watch for almost a full minute before something snaps in my head.
Completely laughable.
Cutters don't die accidentally.
I quickly put on a black hoodie and press the fabric into my skin to stop the bleeding. I can see my blood in little mesh patterns from where it has bled through. It doesn't phase me. I crawl into my bed and enjoy the warm embrace of an appeased demon. It will stop bleeding.
When a cutter dies- It's completely planned for.
Well hello everyone!
It's that time of year again!
Miss Marni needs a place to put her crazy sooooooo...
Welcome to either my new thing or Wendy's suicide note.
Only time will tell.
With work how it is I still haven't found an editor, so I do apologize for all my grammar transgressions.
Slap me in the face. With a Review. Thanks.
With all my love,
MXM
