You know what?
The cuts don’t hurt.
It hurts to wake up each morning and want to die.
It hurts to never be good enough.
It hurts to hate myself with such intensity that I think I deserve to starve.
It hurts to know I messed up.
And to think about what I could have done differently.
It hurts to keep it all a secret.
It especially hurts to know my family will never understand.
But the cuts? They don’t hurt a bit.
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though they no longer hurt
they cover the pain
scars that show the truth
the blood that ran like tears
though it doesn’t hurt
the pain still shows
Every new cut and every scar is a memory. They remind me of who I truly am and why they exist. I actually like the pain from cutting, which I came to acknowledge and welcome. Feeling the blade run through my skin and seeing the blood run down my arms cover all the other pain. All the pain I want to so desperately forget but can’t. That’s why it is so addicting. The more you cut, the more reasons you have to cut. Because for those few moments, all the pain of my past, my present and my insanity are forgotten. I cut to forget, and it works. Temporarily, but it works.