As I sit and look at the gleam of the blade and contemplate its sharpness, how sweet it would feel slicing my skin, I remember it never makes me feel good in the end.

The relief is only temporary.

The blood seeps and with it goes my pain, but in the morning there are scabs that hurt every time a piece of rope is dragged across them.

It's not the kind of pain that feels good, not a dull, hard throb or an ache. It stings and it bites.

And so it seems as if the only way to protect myself from the pain the outside world inflicts upon me and the pain I inflict upon myself, is to wrap myself up and tuck myself away where no one can find me and no one can touch me.

I can't do it by myself, though. That's one of the things I hate about this life, always needing something or someone to finish things off, to make everything complete.

I dont want to feel.

"I think I've reached that point where giving up and going on are both the same dead end to me"

Cure, "End"

And so I sit and I wait for the strength to decide.




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