ray342

[ray342]

if only you knew the tears that burst from my eyes, the tragic pulls on my heart your silence caused me. would you still remain asleep then?

[ray342]

love is so mundane, unless its perfect can I accept it. so I try to make it perfect, and in turn bring on woe and pain, a fight, a argument, so much more entertaining than love.

pain is the addiction, i cannot escape it, it seeps into everything I have, It seeps into my love, the love I give and nuture for another. it starts to rott in the middle, brakedowns and fights and interruptions blossoming from its core. for if love is now not enough for me, what should I do? other than crack open my ribs and let the pain spill from me to another, to be honest and cruel, to slowly kill the love I once waited on so patient and so kindly.

[ray342]

i sit

tw: self harm

I sit, i sit. All i do is sit here and stare at this document, i stare at this piece of digital paper trying to push any thought of slicing my skin open out of my head. The girls around me speak of such simple things, shoes not arriving in time for formal, a male companion they found through snapchat, the trouble they might be in for ditching a certain day of school. These people around me i watch, they seem to be suppressing the urge to talk about numeracy, the class where in. After being directed back to work, they are left to refuse the temptation to gossip, to talk of irrelevant things to the class topic. They hide the urge to blabber, and i hide the urge to excuse myself to the bathroom. Of course i dont need to go, how could i after the malnourishment my body has endured the past days. No i crave the restroom for one thing, the privacy, the secrecy, the stall where i can sit alone and give in to my temptations. My stomach turns, and even this second as i type i can feel my right hand twitching and at times jolting out of place, i cant help but wonder if this is a much simpler and easier version of addiction? If my minds panic and cries for the thing i crave have lead to my body out of pure desperation, trying to force me to get that euphoria i want, or the release i need. 

I cant stop myself

I succumbed. 7 minuets of my confinement in one of the silent bathrooms many cubicles, hidden, has led to at least 18 small and shallow slices into my calf. The process of creating these did not hurt, not even a sting, but as i sit back down i can feel them start to sting as blood bleeds into the tissue i placed in my sock to contain the mess. This isnt enough, not even close to what i was hoping for to be frank. How i would have loved to stay in there longer and pressed the blade with all my might into that scared and traumatised part of my left calf. To watch as the string of open flesh slowly fills with beads of blood, giving me the feeling my mind yearns for. I look around myself, at the people surrounding me, anxiety pulling at the strings of fear in my mind, questioning if they noticed my long departure or think anything of it. Its almost fun to think that these people care, even if it gets washed away by the depressing reassurance none of them do, to them i am but a typewriter, the queer kid who doesn't have any friends, and unless i actively burst into tears or retched right here in front of them their interest would remain on absolutely anything else. 

Part of me is thankful i did not delve too deep in that alluring cubicle, if something were to happen that resulted in my carers being informed again, i might as well have just aimed for the veins in my arms. Its alright though, no one here will know, i have perfected the method of blending in, being anything but noticeable, like a bird stumbling with wire around one leg, a bird that will flap its wings and fly at any sight of interaction to such a wound. God, how could i think of myself like that, to compare myself to a scared innocent animal afflicted by nature or man, as if trying to remove blame from myself when i still cary the same blade i made these injuries with in my pocket. I know im to blame, i would like to accept it whole heartedly, but this quarter, tiny part of mind cries. This child, unable to accept that they are the problem, sobs and points the hand of blame at anyone but themself. My father? No. my past bullying experiences? No. my autism? No. school? No. i know it, i say it myself, i verbalise the blame and claim it as mine, so why cant i accept it? 

To think that this is a result of the worlds treatment to me, to belive its not my fault but a result of the pain i have been through, that my mind wouldnt be like this if id had a better upbringing, a happier life. I cant force the disgust out of me, the shame i get for trying to blame anyone but myself, a battle of refusal to accept, and fully accepting that this pain is made by me, and mine alone to accept.