Paper Cuts

Crimson drips down my perfectly toned thighs, the slit I made among the others, some healed and some scabbed over with dead skin. I watch it dribble down the side, amazed at how something so intricate could be the very thing keeping me alive.

I’ve thought about it more than once, how freeing it would be to leave such a cruel world of insanity, this place we call reality. The blood trickles down my leg before dripping onto the hardwood beneath me. I twirl the blade in my hands, small cuts appearing as I do so. The ache no longer affects me. If they ask, I’ll just say they’re paper cuts.

 

it’s okay, but it’s not

how do i feel? in all honesty i feel dead.
drained, tired, gasping for air but nobody seems to take light, only to be ignored.
i can’t knowing i’ve made no progress in my life.
i no longer find joy, in a lot of things, and it’s difficult.
even to feel something genuine now, is difficult.
and sometimes when i do find that genuinity, it’s not what it plays out to be.
so i suffer.
i suffer in silence because it’s easier.
for both ends.
and at the end of the day they move along with their lives and i’m stuck with mine.
but it’s okay.
you know why?
because i’m already dead inside anyway.