Self-Mutilation

It’s not hard to get to know me.
There’s apart of me in everyone, after all, I'm human.
It didn’t start out "Bad". It started, because I couldn’t cope.
I found it easier sliding into another bathroom stall for release.
It didn’t start with a razor. It started with my other hand.
Nail against skin. Scratching myself like a junkie.
Wanting to get rid of the emotion that so easily took over me.
You can call me what you will. I am who I am. What I am.
I find myself disgusting. Afraid of the world.
Am I? It’s not like I'm hiding. I'm just being me. Quiet, useless, shelf top me.
One day scratching wouldn’t take away the emotion. I didn’t know what to do with myself.
I was hysterical. I couldn’t stay calm and breathe. I couldn’t think. It just kept replaying.
So I went in to the bathroom, looking for something sharp... And low and behold. My dad’s shaving knife. He really is old fashioned. I shut the door, locked myself inside.
I looked myself in the mirror, eyeliner running down my cheek. Pitiful me.
I started slow, soft, and unsure.
I put more pressure; I calmed down seeing the blood.
My head went back in pleasure. From that day I was hooked.


... Don't be too alarmed. Just a beginning.