Invisible tears bursting out.
Panic staring out of my eyes.
Slash, slash. Two cuts.
One, not as deep as I would have wanted it to be.
Blood, slowly pouring out, staining the white sink, dancing together with the water.
The slam of a door, as if trying to, in a desperate way, look myself in.
Running up to the bed, grabbing my source of music, turning up the volume.
Slam. Fists connecting with the wall.
Again, slam.
Knuckles turning red, sore.
It stings, but I continue.
Deep down inside, I hear screams.
Wounds, opening up on my hands, slightly colouring the wall red.
I feel like a total failure, not beeing able to cut deep enough.
Slam, yet again, knuckles acing.
My breathing has gone from that of a haunted animal, to gently calming itself down.
Pain and adrenalin has done its work.
I stare on the wall. It looks as dirty as I feel.
I get up, and even though I feel at ease now, I still sense the panic throbbing in my heart, hitting against fragile bones.
I stand, to face the mirror.
To face myself.
Hit.
Open, harsh hands hitting soft cheeks.
"You're so fucking worthless, I hate you. I fucking hate you!!"
I prepare myself for the hits that'll follow.
Cheeks turning violently red.
And so, atlast, I feel satisfied with what I've accomplished.
I dig through drawers of medical equipment.
As I carefully clean my wounds, they sting.
They gape at me, as if trying to make me feel guilty for hurting them so bad.
I smile, not caring at all anymore.
I can do whatever I want to with my body.
For me, my selfdestructive side is my own twisted way of surviving.
It doesn't make sense, I know.
I don't get it myself either.
But right now, this if my life.
Survival.
Why, you thought I were dead, didn't you?
It seems as if all of my fics is 'ON HOLD!'... I know, and I'm sorry for letting you down...
It feels like I have no strenght or motivation left do write. Writing used to help me get better, to feel better.
It still does, but not in the same way anymore.
I'm to fucked up to be fixed.