@FRANKtheTritoposaur group
//TW//SH suicide parental death (Homophobia mabye?)\
Another worthless Day
Worthless. An insult. An insult constantly flung at me. Worthless. They’re right. I don’t deserve to live. That's why I’m here. Another worthless day?
I’ll pass.
MY body longs for death. My mind longs for pain and suffering. My hands crave stabbing and scraping and slicing. My legs crave the feel of cold metal against warm blood.
I need to get it out. I need to get out. My breath is steady as I take the knife and run my fingers along the blade. Gently, I run my fingers down my thigh. Feeling every cut and scar from every time.
The first was when I was 10. My mom had died and my grades were slipping and I had feelings for girls that I never had before. It was small. Two cuts no bigger than half an inch on each side.
The next was a year later. I had been publicly humiliated when I asked a girl out. She said no. I cut myself a lot then.
6 months later I was at it again because I failed a test. For the next few weeks I cut nearly every day. Loving the feel and look of the blood pooling on my skin.
Then she happened. I fell way too fast. I fell too hard. She was so pretty. I asked her out. She said yes. I was so shocked I forgot about my urges. She was my everything.
My sun.
My food.
My oxygen.
My worth.
My life.
I worshiped her for a year. Then she met someone else. I still was so in love I didn’t see. I didn’t feel her pull away. I didn’t know.
Then she dumped me. I cut myself so bad, I ran out of room on my legs and moved to my arms.
Then they saw.
They saw every message to myself that I carved in flesh.
They saw the times I told myself never again.
They saw the times I got hurt.
They saw my inside.
That was weeks ago. I’ve been being hit, kicked, and ridiculed everyday now. So, I’m going to end it. I’m going. I don’t care where as long as it isn’t in the moral body.
The blade goes deeper into my thigh and I wince with pain. I slice my legs a few more times. When they’re ruined beyond repair, i move the blade.
Ugh, I vocalize when I cut the skin on my soft stomach. I drive the blade in. I pull it out and drive it in again. I need to make sure they can’t fix me.
It hurts. It hurts so much.
I cry and my tears mix with blood. Thump, thump, thump!I
Someone is coming into the bathroom. I think I screamed too loud. I lean myself up against the stall door before they try to force in.
They’re screaming, I’m silent. It’s her. IT’S HER. I move.
The door slams open. She joins me in silence. I wave, showing off my cuts. She falls to her knees. I flash a smile and bring the knife to my chest. My hands are shaky now.
The knife is in my chest before she can grab it. We’re screaming together this time. I don’t know why she's yelling. I’m the one who stabbed herself.
I try to say something to her but I can’t speak. My throat is filled with blood. I smile again and blood drips out the sides. My head hurts. I want to go to sleep.
Gently, I lay myself down on the tile and close my eyes. The comfort of sleep, or death, takes me. I feel no more.
This story got flagged when I wrote it for potp but I'm still really proud of it so i decided to post here.