Blade
I only felt good when I was holding a blade between my fingers,
and I don’t want to get into it, but let me tell you about the delightful way of how the streams of fresh blood would follow a path on my pale thighs,
always keeping as a secret, nowhere visible enough.
I thought I was clever, relying on a razor instead of opening up my mouth.
But you don’t know when is too much, you get used so used to the feeling, that a certain point you consider it normal.
A way someone would relieve their stress is by running you would do it by scaring yourself.
And the best part is that if you were secretive enough, no one would ever notice.
They will only notice your eyelids full of glitter and the unusual way you decide to fix your hair.
The clothes will hide all the bruises you caused to yourself in a moment when your anxiety was getting out of control, and your body was the only way to calm it down.
I find it ironic, how people say “I never notice anything strange about her behavior”
Until you feel confident enough, with the thought that you can get away with anything,
and in that exact moment, you hit the point of no return. Where you can notice the blood spilling your clothes,
When the pills make a blurry speech to the point no one understands what are you trying to say.
It’s that moment when you look at your mother when she sees how damage her little girl is,
when one of your friends says she doesn’t want to be part of the life of someone who is going to end up soon.
And you don’t know how to stop it, because is the thing that brings you calmness.
But you try to change, for them. You can’t stand their defeat when they look at you.
You feel you’re a waste of potential, damaged goods, no one will see more than a mentally unstable girl.
