One by One

Burn, cut, bleed…

I bought a blade for the purpose of dramatic actualisation and when I realised I couldn’t do it, I shoved the unprotected blade in my bag pocket where my pods sit. It took less than a minute of mindless searching for the blade to wedge itself in my finger, making its home within the supple flesh made available to it, the former occupants escorted on an almost unending wave of fresh red.

It was nice. A needed feeling, transporting me to places unseen, unknown, unrecognised. Places sorely missed. You wouldn’t know of the white space in your head when joy and dopamine mixes, would ya? Where it feels like nothing, including yourself, can hurt you? Where everything is so silent and calm and you have no thoughts and you may be made a mess of and you wouldn’t hate it? Do you know where that is?

However, after the high comes a weird crash. It hurts, it’s loud and bright again and it stinks.

So, I relapsed. Took a year and some of tightly wielded control, imagined calmness and unprovoked happiness and drew a blade through the tightly coiled tension. There’s no joy in the fact that I was able to hold out for that long despite the persistent itch under my skin to get rid of myself. I tried, I persevered, I held out for a bit, thinking maybe I’ll be fine enough not to think about it. But, seasonal depression is a bumble-headed bimbo, a bunion you can’t ignore, try as you might. It hurts, then it doesn’t, it gets numb for a while then starts hurting again on a random morning. Manifesting itself in the noise and smells of humans, sweaty and horny and disgusting and loud and itchy and achy.

I have no lack for joy, but, I crave the pace of pain and terror. I have walked on the hot coals of despair and found myself burned beyond repair, still I seek the salvation that comes in the form of a river of red. And the high that drives me insane for less than a second? You should try it.

Methinks you may not douse me in the flames of your scorn and the stench of your judgement. So, leave me to hurt the one thing I have control over and pick back up the ashes into the ornamental jar held in places I wish not to reach again.

Signed:

A🖤💜