A Cricket For Luck
I feel like I could write an essay on the topic of terror.
The terror that holds a child in bed during a thunderstorm.
The terror that grips you in its teeth and refuses even the smallest deviation from the path it sets before you.
The terror that grips me now.
The terror that I don't control these hands.
My hands are scarred from years of woods, beaches, and bikes.
They have calluses and scars.
My hands could not belong to anyone but me
And yet I don't control them...
The shadowed part of my heart takes these hands and forces them to do things, terrible, horrible things, things that I can't talk about... Slitting my skin like an overripe berry... Forcing my thighs to weep tears of blood... My terror is the terror of knowing that my shadows, the shadows that are in my heart and never fully out of my mind, conquer my will at their whim and force me to... to push my friends away... to manipulate them into doing whatever I like... to cut and slit and tear my own skin...
My dad showed me his new toolbox today... it has all his replacement razor heads in it... a box of 100, he wouldn't miss only one... i... somebody STOP ME... somebody STOP ME OR I'M GOING TO KILL MYSELF AND I DON'T WANT TO, DO YOU HEAR ME?!?!? I DON'T WANT TO DIE NO NO NO I CAN'T DIE I WON'T STOP DOING THIS TO ME STOP PLEASE!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!