I had quit cutting for a while. I was kinda happy and I put all my razor blades away. That lasted one week. My mum saw my cuts and said I needed help. I screamed at her that I didn’t and that I could take care of myself. She dragged me to the hospital anyway. I decided to piss her off so I cut my arm right in front of her and the doctors. I also had bitten into my shoulder to where the shirt had blood on it. I didn’t care anymore about living.
They gave my some pills and said to ‘take it easy’. Fucking thanks a lot. The pills only fucked me up more. I became even more depressed and felt even more alone. I cut so deep once I had to go back to the hospital and lay in a bed for two days. After that my mum gave up on me. She turned her back on me, so did my da, my sister, and the rest of my family. The only ones who stayed with me were my older brother Matt and a few of my closest mates. I attempted suicide a month or so ago. I still feel suicidal. I kinda wish someone would just fucking help me. But then again I like the way the pain goes away after a good cut. My brother Matt found me on my bed with my wrists slit. The doctors told him if he hadn’t found me when he did, even by one second it would have been to late to save me. From that time my brother has cut himself, I still do and some of my friends do too. One day we all cut ‘I’m not perfect’ into our legs. My brother got help and now has stopped cutting. Me and my mates still cut. And we all feel suicidal.
I have reopened all the scabs from all the wounds of the past, and the pain and hatred bleed from them in jagged lines down my pale skin. It’s… It’s as though these cuts are not real… They are only imaginary lines… Painted on in a beautiful shade of red.