In the soft blue tiled bathroom I sit on the tubs edge and bite my lip, pressing the smooth silver blade deeper and harder into my equally smooth flesh. I love the feel of my skin tearing open, I love the pressure that I press down with on to my unsuspecting wrist, I love the look of the small beads and pools of cherrycrimson blood that squeezes out. I love how it leaves trails down my arm, I blow on them, racing them along. Everything on my arm is competing. It is one big battlefield with a scoreboard and a hard competition to beat. Which is the deepest cut? Which cut bleeds the most blood? Which line looks the most fresh? Which shape is the most interesting? Who wins for tonight? The judges rally inside my mind. The award is given. Small pink sticky band aides are pressed upon them. Everything feels a little safer and little more empty. Just as it should. Jeeze I feel like another statistic, another girl that all the other ones hate. I feel like a weak piece of human existance, a worthless depressed teenager. Theres nothing new about anything I do. I am on repeat, the spitting image of all the other pain-inflicting, crying, suicidal girls across the world. Trying to spin day dreams into reality, trying to look on the bright side, trying to get by and just failing at it all.
I am everything someone should hate.