Â I think it all happened in seventh grade. I met this wonderful girl, her name was Patricia. I first met her in drama class, she had brought this razor to class and was cutting up her notebook. All I could think of was the razor I played with last night cutting into my wrists again and again. I slowly fell for her, she didn’t even help me up. I was so near to telling her how I had felt, but she told me about this guy, they were going out and she was inlove with him. . . She tore my heart out, squised it and walked away with it. Every time in class, she would talk of her love. I just nodded my head and told her I was happy that she finally had someone. Secretly, I wished that she would be depressed once more and come and talk to me. It never happened. I was left on the sidelines, watching her with her love. I had no one.
Â Every night I would slit my wrists, wondering what I could do to be with this girl. She was my everything. I’m not sure how I ever got over her. I’m not even sure IF I’m over her. But I could live with it either way.
Â She made me happy and she made me so depressed. She showed me everything she knew about the razor and its game. I accepted it all, and slowly I was winning. She stopped and I continued. Once she left though, I was able to stop.
Â In highschool, I saw her once more. Everything came back. My razor. My thoughts. And the scars.
Â Now every night I sit up and hold the razor close, wondering how far I can push it into my skin and how much blood it would bring.