Because I Can

Copyright S B

I started cutting when I was thirteen, and now I am tenty-one, and I still can’t get away from this drug.

It started when I tried to tell my mom about my cousin who sexually abused me frequently, and I had to ride with him to school everyday anyway. My mom didn’t believe me and screamed at me for aggravating situations. I found I couldn’t stop crying and they stung every time I tried opening them, and there was this ache in my throat that wouldn’t go away because I was screaming in silent agony inside. I realised the only time I relaxed was in the vicinity of my washroom — my haven, with my razor — my savior and my hot blood running down my arm, smearing the white tiles red — my release, that I was indeed a self-inflicter.

My cuts became the expression of all my emotions, my hopelessness, my guilt, my misery, my grief, my depression, my despair and my anger. Every cut had its own story, and every cut got deeper and longer. But I could never muster the courage to go just that deep so as to end it.

This is my retribution. I pay for my sins in blood. I do it because I can. I do it because I loathe myself and I do it because I can’t control myself. I do it because I dont want to lash my anger out the other people, because I deserve to live in this hell.


Copyright S B

i thought i could stop
i thought i could hide

so wrong i was
i knew deep inside

every day i kill a part of me
i try cut my memories away

every day i pray
for this to end

and i live for dying
cuz i cant stop crying


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