Black Phoenix
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2002-10-05 06:00:43 (UTC)

Comfort in Blood

I read an entry that said that they had cut themselves to
the bone. It was the wrist, and since they didn't die, I
have to assume it was the side or top. Perhaps one of those
bumps by the joint, where the bone is close. But still, the
willpower to do that is unimaginable. I would get sick to
feel my knife scrape my very bones. I have to give full
credit to the person who managed to do that. Strength is
still to be found among people.

My cuts have never been to the bone. The muscle, yes. Major
blood vessels, yes. When I don't cut myself deep enough to
bleed, I get angry and cut myself again to make up for it.
If I cannot even draw my own blood, how can I claim I
control myself, that I am strong? 48 scars and counting,
but I still hate myself for all the rest that didn't last.

I need to cut an extra amount tonight, as punishment.
That's all I cut for anymore. Some people cut in order to
feel something, some cut out of pity and hatred of
themselves. Actually, that would be my reason. Hatred of
myself. Punishment for the terrible deeds I do against
myself. Today I was, as usual, in the chatroom that I
patronize several hours every day. But today something came
over me. I logged in on a different name and started
talking to people. When someone brought up a conversation
topic, I encouraged them to talk. I said hello to people I
didn't know. I was so normal. So very bland. I realized
what i was doing, though, and closed the window. But I
still did it. I can't do that anymore. How can I hate
people if I seek them out to talk?

No, I cannot allow myself to partake in their drivel.

And so the scars accumulate.