Don't speak. Let me in.

(Cutters Dream-}
{2003-04-08} {12:06 a.m.}

I couldn’t sleep. I sat there in my room for almost an hour and just sat there thinking and pondering, wondering of what it would feel like to be cut, or cut.

I later on drifted off to sleep from my thoughts dancing around on endless clouds of desire and woke up this morning at 7 am. I went and took my bath, and as I sat there on the edge of the tub, the same re occurring thought bounced in my head again. I found a razor and held the blade in my hand. A doubled edged sword is what I thought as I looked at it. On one side there was this shiny life like image of my face and on the other side was the sharp pain that was coursing throughout my body. Running my fingers along the edge of the blade brought excitement to me. Was it a delight of not knowing? Or just the confused state I was in questioning myself if I was ready to take that final plunge into a realm of darkness? I ran the tips of my finger across the vein on my wrist. Feeling the blood pumping and coursing through my arm, I softly ran my finger up and down my forearm. One moment I was at peace with the rhythm of my heart beating beneath my finger, and the next I was lost in a world not known to me. Images flooding me from my past, I made my first cut. I cried as I released all of the pain I had been holding in for so long. I cried because of the pain in my heart too. For I was saddened I had allowed myself to give in. I never wanted to do any harm to myself, ever. But, for some odd reason there was a twinge of happiness lurking up inside of me for reasons unknown to me.

Was it because I had finally done something I have dreamt of for so long? Or was it the sadness draining from my soul? Challenging my thoughts I sank down onto the floor beside the bathroom door and just sat there staring. Staring at the wine-red crimson color flowing; from the tip of my vein down into the palm of my hand. I took my finger and traced lines of red along my arm and said bizarre things to myself. I even traced blood on my lips and drank in the taste of tenderness from what used to be the sorrow stinging with in me. I took my arm and angled it ever so slightly over my body, allowing just enough room for the redness to trickle from my wrist into the other palm of my hand. With my legs apart and my cupped hand I held myself ever so tightly as the blood flowed from my wrist. As each drop traveled I imagined it as being a tear curving elegantly down stream into a river of other tears, landing in the center of my hand ever so stylishly and graceful. At midpoint I could feel the desire of not feeling sufficient enough inside of my heart as I cut myself again. I sat there on the floor of my bathroom in a daze watching the blood flow as if it was in a world all its own. Trickling down stream in an easy quiet flow of imagination it rested of the edge of my finger; waiting to drop. The red beading in a motionless plunge fell onto the floor. In the dead silence I could hear it crash silently against the tile. Warmth against coldness sent chills up my spine, as I imagined how the heat of my blood plummeted onto the cold tile below me. Imagining myself to be that bead of red-crimson desire, flowing down my arm, onto a cold slab of hate. I awoke from my daze to find a pool of dark red surrounding me feet. I was scared, but not completely afraid. I felt some kind of peace within myself. A twinge of sadness, but also a pang of happiness. I can’t explain the meaning of it all. And, I guess that basically I don’t want to. It isn’t something I dare to trek along to find the meaning of. I pray that I don’t do it again. Why? Well, simply because of the pain that it is giving me now. I can’t imagine where the happiness of it came from before. I am saddened that I would do such a thing to myself. And ashamed in a sagacity that I am half lifeless now. Don’t pity me for I have cut myself today.

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