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| "Perhaps there is a way out..." |
21st November, 19.55pm.
The cuts do not strike as deep today.
No blood is spilled, no flesh is split - at least, not very deep anyways.
The knife still twirls and dances on my skin, her cold edge dragging on my wrist, leaving behind the faintest trace of a scar. Her pirouette leaves a faint white scar trailing down the length of my lower arm - hopefully that will remain hidden from sight.
Upwards and downwards, my metal mistress travels, slowly sinking into my flesh, her jagged blade sending jolts of sweet, saccharine ecstasy up and down my arm, reverberating into my very core; at this point, all feelings stop, and all I think of is my handiwork.
Once she is finished, I put her back under the desk, away from those who would wish for me to stop.
I am going to continue - at least until I find the control I've been craving.
Images of the past flash before my eyes, and I slump back into self-pity.
21st November, 20.24pm.
I... I do not know how to feel.
I told one of my trusted friends why I had wound up in this state, the reasons for my apathy - and I was not jeered at. Rather, I was accepted for who I was, and thus, I carry new hope for the future.
Perhaps there is a way out of this pit. Whenever I try to voice a problem, I am mocked and jeered, but now, I've been... listened to.
This hasn't happened in many an age, and now I feel almost normal, like all the other students - but for now, the knife awaits. Those cuts aren't going to make themselves.
Hold on -
Maybe self-harm isn't the way out. Perhaps what you need to do is to tell your friends, and see what they -
No.
Why not? Look at us - look at you.
The longer you keep going, the more that thing takes control of you, damn it! Just put it down -
No! Neither you, nor anyone else is taking this away. In time, maybe, but for now, I am in control, and there's nothing you can do.
Can't you see that this is a gateway to something worse? What if, dare I say it, the cuts go deeper, or this never goes away? What if, in your search for control, you lose the very thing you want to gain?
...
I'll think about it.
Good.
21st November, 21.55pm.
My mistress returns.
Fresh from her previous dance, she returns to work, her stainless edge once more gyrating on the flesh of my wrist, leaving behind the faintest of marks.
The old scars still remain - chilling reminders of the dark days. That's not to say things have gotten better; there is still a fair bit to go before I will be back to my normal self once more.
So, for now, the knife will fill that hole in my conscious. I just have to be careful not to to let it control me...
I am in control.
I am in control.
I am in control.
22nd November, 22.55pm.
Too much to bloody think about.
My best friend - yes, the one I haven't talked to in about 4 months has returned, and is willing to sort things out with me regarding our fallout.
She knows, doesn't she?
Yes - she knows our little secret. But no matter.
I am still in control of my faculties. I am in control of that knife, not vice versa.
You say you are in control now - we will have to see how this unfolds.
And you have to uphold your promise. No cutting - not today and not tomorrow.
Are you prepared to do that?
I can't promise anything, but I will try.
For now, my mistress will remain hidden.
Good. I'd rather you not hurt yourself needlessly.
I will be meeting her soon (not going to tell you the day, am I?) and hopefully, this will be sorted once and for all.
Maybe then I will find some semblance of peace - and I won't need my mistress anymore.
No poems today; there is no need for those works
To document what slithers and lurks
Inside my mind, and inside my being
My eyes cannot believe what I am seeing
One mind, fragmented into two
One side is reason, the other serves to skew
My perception of life, tinting my vision with black
I can do nothing; nothing but kick back
This threat, this demon infiltrates my mind
Sifting through memories, see if it can find
Something, anything, to use against me
It seeks nothing but pleasure, see?
Its pleasure will come at my demise
With malign wrist and cold flesh, one would surmise
That whoever did this - to themselves and their peers
Finally broke, and succumbed to what they fought - their fears.
Source of image: http://www.deviantart.com/art/follow-the-light-121314993
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