It glimmers in the pale moonlight that filters through my windows, I have no curtains, I need no curtains. I can smell the dried blood on it; I can sense the sharpness of its tip through my fingertips. The blade is cold, unforgiving, yet I cannot seem to let it go. It is a part of me, a part in which my family and friends never see. I can never let them know, what would they think of me? Those terrified looks I would receive if they knew, no I do not think I could handle their fear, or receive their pity. My mind realizes this is wrong, but I cannot stop, it is too addicting.
The coolness of the blade as it tears my skin, the red blood that flows through my cuts, yes I am an addict. Cutting my skin gives me a high that no one can understand, I'm not sure that I fully understand. At first I told myself that cutting helped me counter act the physical pain from my cancer, a pain that is all consuming and relentless, that was my reason, how I said that I didn't have problems, that I was normal. Then as I started doing it more and more I found that I was cutting when there was no pain.
The reason I told myself disappeared, only to be replaced by the reality that the pain was not physical, not matter how hard I tried to convince myself. Over and over I repeated that I had a just reason, it was the belief that kept me from digging the knife into my skin a little deeper. I came across many things that were sharp, of which I eagerly put to use. The collection of things pile underneath my mattress, every night it is something different. A sharp rock here, a dinner knife there, the only thing that matters is that it gets the job done. So now as I pass the knife between my hands a feeling of self- disgust oozes through me. It is quickly pushed away now that the knife has pressed itself into my skin, now all I feel is sharp, stinging pain. The cuts are never too deep, nor are they too shallow, and I only make one a night. Those are my rules, my guidelines. Rules are meant to be broken, I say sometimes when I want to make more cuts. Pink lines littler my upper arms, I make them high so that I can still wear short sleeve shirts.
A couple of people have guessed, yet they are too scared to confront me. Occasionally people will ask me where I got them, I say different things each time. I'm not good at lying, my stories suck, I think one time I said my cat did this, pathetic, I cannot even come up with a good lie. The knife I hold is dripping with blood, and I become dizzy, a feeling of panic swirls within me, have I cut too deep? Blood continues to drip from my right arm and I realize the problem, I have cut into a vein. A soft thump is all I hear before my mind drifts into the sweet oblivion of unconsciousness.