Sometimes, I wish I was the one who had the nerve to slide that dull razor across my skin over and over- it would be stupid for me to do it now- I would be weak, I would be following her. Not being brave and blindly leaving this world like she did. I'm not one to follow
It hurts to be alone now, I was always alone, never had a family I could remember- never took on a friendship that asked more then I was willing to give, never had a girl who stole a piece of my heart… I was an island. But now I felt the emptiness deep inside my stomach hanging there like a rock.
I'd punish myself for being weak. I'd slowly slide the same dull razor over my arm trying to get a sense of what she was feeling in her last moments.
Did she cry out for me?
Did she curse me?
Or did she just idly slide into blackness not giving a damn about the time we spent together.
She had done it before, I found her in an alley with a piece of glass. I watched her slide the small shard over her skin slowly. I stayed in the shadows watching her bleed. It was so casual- she cut herself as if she was lighting a cigarette or swatting at a fly. I was amazed at how her hand hardly shook as the razor drew blood. She watched the red liquid fall to the ground clumping in the dirt like she was watching her pain disappear.
I watched her until she took out a worn bandage from her pocket- she planned this. I felt sick at the sight of her wrapping her pre-planned wound- I had to walk away. I was surprised at the tears burning my eyes and my shaky knees... but I promised I would not talk of tears; but I will talk about my anger.
I wanted to hit her- to slap the idiocy right out of her. Who in their right mind, when planning their day allots a half an hour for self mutilation? To say to themselves- 'I'll have to leave the park a bit early I have a date with my razor' ...
I did now.
I don't know if I thought it would bring me closer to her- or bring her back even for a minute… or if I truly wanted to die… I wasn't sure, but I knew I didn't have enough courage to push the razor just a bit deeper to end it all.
I'd close my eyes while the blood dripped down my hand and think of her. I've only been thinking about our fights lately- the way I'd get strangely aroused when she'd yell at me and push me away from her. The way she would never cry infront of me. I'd try so hard to make her cry, I'd say she was a whore- she was nothing- I'd slap her... still no tears.
After a few more hits we'd fuck against the wall- angry, hard, scratching sex and our fight was over. It never ended with out that. Without that angry release. She was always the best when she was angry.
She never cried in front of me- but I'd hear her.
She'd run out curing my name- she never knew I followed her and listened. I'd hear muffled tears and her throwing things against the wall making me jump when one hit too close to the door. I'd listen until she was done, then walk calmly away like she was nothing to me.
I had won
Even sex had lost all meaning.
I'd just lay there and watch the girl bounce on me finding every flaw. Every extra bounce in her skin- every scar- every hair out of place. If she'd moan and it would drive me crazy I'd close my eyes not letting myself think of her or what she was doing to me.
They were all different- but they had one thing in common- they weren't her.
I'd never get off. After I'd push them off of me and pull up my pants, unsatisfied. Sometimes I'd jack off in the bathroom thinking of her. Her face- the line of her neck- her breasts- her hips. I loved her hips. I loved how my fingers felt digging into them… Other times I'd suffer- I caused this and I wouldn't let myself have that satisfaction.
I'd leave the girls making them feel like a whore for ever trusting me to get under their skirts. Some I'd sleep with again- some I wouldn't but I'd always walk out without a second glance; I'd wait to hear them cry though I'd stand outside their door until I heard that first sob. I wanted to feel their weakness, I liked knowing it was me.
The scars were growing now- up my arms slowly- like a river- or a tree root. Before I'd just rip open the old scab- it would hurt more, but now the scabs were going numb and I was forced to move up my arm starting with a fresh canvas. No one knew this weakness. I'd wear long sleeves in 100 degree whether if I had to.
My life was all about measurements now:
Think about her- no breakfast.
Dream about her- no breakfast or lunch
Jack off to her picture- I'd eat nothing.
I had to wean myself off of her like a mother does to her baby. I knew she wasn't coming back. I knew I wasn't going to see her again. Heaven doesn't exist for people like us.