God I want to cut.
Not fine beautiful lines with a razor.
I liked the shell.
It took a lot of force and effort to draw blood.
It was bulky and awkward like me.
Not only did it cut... it bruised.

I hate this life I have
This life of self-imposed invisible mutilation.
I hate when it lingers in front of me and I am silent.
I hate
I hate
I hate!
I hate counting to feel better and it not working no number is enough to remove the pain the invisibility I feel. The ugliness.

I hate being me.
I hate my skin and the way it crawls across me as a constant reminder of who I am.
I HATE.

I hate my legs my arms my face my breasts and the way I want to cut them off not with a surgeons scalpel but with a hatchet. No delicacy for me. Nothing soft or smooth but brash and ugly. I want to look as ugly as I feel. I want it to be palpable.

I want to remove this pain. This feeling that will not subside in me. I want to get high. I want to get stupid. I want that moment of release when I feel something and nothing all at once.

I WANT TO NOT HATE SO FUCKING MUCH.

In breathy darkenss
I dream of sheading this skin-- this flesh
This life gone
Leaping into the void that is beyond

Moving onto new
Taking on the next life-- another life
No monotony
Into the exploration of ambiguity

To be energy
Not bound by a shell- expectation
Floating lost
Where I am finally found.

Starting Over

I self-harmed today. I am scared. Is this just the beginning of it all over again? I have made a promise not to do anything further today/tonight. I am supposed to tell my therapist. It was only little.....

So what is emotional self-mutilation?

It is this covert act that I commit upon myself every time I wake up, every moment I breathe. I have been forbidden and made "contracts" not to self-harm. I have not. Instead inside my swirling brain I do such fun things as thinking of ways I cannot kill myself.

• I cannot overdose
• I cannot slit my wrists
• I cannot drive off a cliff
• I cannot drown myself

Instead, I go to therapy 2 times a week. I take a fistful of pills every night. I go to group once a week. I live a half-life. One between depression and reality. One where I reside alone.

If I can just be quiet enough, still enough, it will not hurt.