...

No, we don't cut ourselves because of some masochistic gene in us, or because we mean it to be a cry for help. We cut because it's liberating, because the tang is the only drug we'll accept against the numbness of grief, because it brings back consciousness, it makes the words flow back again. We cut because it hands back to us the reins of our lives, beginning with the most elementary unit: our body. It's ours to love, shape and mutilate. The world, and you, cannot tell us what to do.

They're our scars, our battle marks against you, against life. They shine out, red, against the blandness of varying shades of brown that we're forced to be, just like you.

We cut because it reminds us that we're alive.

Someday, we'll cut too deep and then it'll be the end of us. We'll be free.

This is my version of running away from everything and everyone. This is my secret place and you can't reach me here.
I wish I never had to talk to another mortal as I lived.
Sometimes it just gets too much.
Though, admittedly, it's worse in the dark.

I wish I could throw my phone away. So no one could reach out to me. Ever ever again.
It'd be my life and my time and my days and nights. My weeks and my routines. I could do what I wished, as I wanted to.
I'm sick of everyone else around me dictating what I am to do.

So much for looking ahead.

All we're looking forward to is the fading of everything that mattered even in the vaguest form, to us. To growing up and going away. For the final time. To ultimately not have our parents around. To spend our lives with that one person we think we're already sure about. And then perhaps growing to despise them for their being themselves, in varying amounts, over time, because familiarity does, after all, breed contempt. To no longer have our mistakes excused or have someone pull you out of shit. To mid-life crises and monetary troubles and paying for midgets you weren't even ever sure you'd have.

It's such an unhappy list. What changed?

.

Right now, I hate, HATE my life.