My Curse

One of the worst things about being a cutter is the aftermath. First, you have to clean up your mess and make sure you don’t stain anything or questions will be asked. Then you probably tend to your wounds to make sure they dont get infected because then you could die and not the way you want to. Then you have to maintain the hiding, what about when I change in the locker room? Or go to get blood taken? What about when it’s summer and people grow suspicious if I wear covering clothes all the time? You have to plan around these things and make it work or else your only form of relief might be taken away.
I mean, what really is the problem with being a cutter? Besides taking risks, if you know what you’re doing then it shouldn’t really be a problem. So what I like to slit my skin because physical pain is the only true constant, the only thing I actually feel. Dont worry about me unless I truly want to die.
I was just in the bathroom listening to So Cold by Nikisha Reyes Pile on replay. I kept dipping the razor into my skin and watching the crimson wave well up and then crash over the side of my arm. Then I would do it again.
I got blood on the radiator when I lifted myself up from the unforgiving tile floor. Then I shook it out in the sink. It was completely coated with red. I liked watching the blood trail and mingle down my arm.
But then the rush was over all too soon and I had to clean myself up. I scrubbed and soaked up blood and then hid my brand new war stripes.
Cutting isn’t just a relief. It’s an addiction, a curse. And as much as I love to do it, I advise you not to start if you haven’t already. Once you’re in the cutter’s club, you can’t get out.
Until the day I die I will always have to hide my curse.