D. R. M.
Copyright, D. R. M.
I am like a little baby.
I fit and I cry and I make no sense as I bellow beneath my tears and my head shoved into the floor.
I wimper and I scream and I act as such a child,
Or even a baby.
As an infant I was an infant, and as an adolescent I have not reached the proper emotional stage.
I do not cut myself because of the pain. I cut myself because I want to feel something. Anything. Sometimes. I also cut myself because of too much pain. Too much to bear. Anything. To rid the pain.
I am not discreet, but then I do not want everyone to see.
A marking of my own demise into stupidity.
I need all that I cannot have,
I crave the cut and I crave the rush and I crave everything about it
I cannot risk them finding out,
Although I find the sheer thought of someone seeing them exhiliarating.
They are never deep enough.
Once I have reached my deepest cut, I am happy. Then I,
Along with my sharp-looking friends,
Wait and sleep and wait until I am ready to go deeper.
That may be in an hour,
But never longer.
Am I really addicted.
I wonder this because of my intensity afterwards.
The high I feel is not a good high. Rather it is full with paranoia and rage and stress and even more stress and then the stress that causes it.
My heart may collapse.
You assume that I have my whole life, but nothing is certain.