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,
Right now.

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,
A day,
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.
It will.
Not today.

You assume that I have my whole life, but nothing is certain.


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