Copyright, RM

My name is RM. I’m a gay sixteen year old male from Canada. I come from a good home, no abuse, no booze, no drugs. I’ve always been a good kid. Not too smart, always there for anyone. But no one’s been there for me. Not ever. I feel helpless sometimes. I guess I started because I was never happy with myself, I was never good enough for myself. I’d always want something more. I started my horrible habit a long time ago I guess, I’ve always been doing it, but I never really knew. I’d always find myself scratching myself with anything. Being gay doesn’t help either, you’re always getting those looks from people, at school it’s hard, I’d sit at the lunch table and I’d hear the whispers. Sometimes I’d roll up a peice of tin-foil from a gum pack and scratch my arm under the table. My music helps a lot, I’d say I’m an outcast from the rest of the high school society. I’m good at art and I’m not as tredy as the rest of the kids, I listen to “wierd yelling music.” I’m invisible to everyone sometimes. My scars on my arms are reminders are of what I’ve become. Nothing at all. I wear long sleeved clothes, even on the hottest day of the summer. I never let anyone touch my arms. My razors are in my room wrapped in a cloth stained with blood blotches. My mom found them once, she didn’t tell me, she just took the cloth and razors. I was so mad, she took away my only escape route. But I had to go as far as taking razors from school just to get a sense of security from them. People sometimes ask about my long sleeve wearings. I ignore them. Sometimes it’s like a fury takes over me, I begin slashes and dragging it across my arm. I went out late one night and grabbed my razors and cloth, I held them. I walked to a field by our house and sat there for about two hours, I cried a lot, of how useless I am, I didn’t feel sorry for myself, I just realized it. I cut deep that night. Very deep. Then it stopped. After that, I walked home, and went to sleep. I woke up and went for breakfast wearing a long sleeved t-shirt and banged my arm on the table and it began to bleed and soak into my shirt, everyone looked at me, they were like I was crazy. I just got up and went to my room. Nobody talked to me about it ever. I didn’t want them to. They would never understand. They don’t want to admit to themselves that something might be wrong in their lifes. Everyone treats me like glass, like I’m going to break or something. I still do it, not as often though. Until the day I die, I don’t think I’ll stop. It’s like a drug, it helps you but then again it can kill, and it is, very slowly.


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