Paper Cranes

Self Harm

Silas

One cut,
burn, or
small bruise
Is all it takes
To make you lose
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The silence and I seem to be at war now a days.

Where there is silence, there is thought, and where there is thought, there is a blade. Or a lighter, or a wall.

There are jagged incisions along the lines of my collarbone, as close to my neck as I'm willing to go. My thighs have turned a sickening blackish blue. Sometimes I hardly notice when I ram objects into their thickened hide. I'm more concerned with drowning the crushing pain that is almost unexplainable. 

When my mind really rages, my lighter is my comforter. Because that is when I come alive, my senses, my nerves are tingling with the anticipation. I am in love with the idea of it. Maybe I'm in love with the control I have. 

My self harm is the only control I have. 

But as much as I try and fool myself, this is destroying me. It's bending and twisting inside of me and I am powerless against it. How can something that seems to help, end up killing you in the process?

Maybe that's a good thing, I'll end up dying sooner or later.

I'll run myself to the ground he tells me. It's enough, they say, they're fed up. I've changed into someone unrecognizable.

The doctors say it's a miracle I'm still alive, with all my previous attempts, it's a miracle I'm not dead yet.

I think it's a miracle these blades haven't sunk in deeper yet.

My parents say the worry about me.

Cause all I do is sit in my room, no music, no sound, almost no living signs of life. 

They say that I need to talk to someone. They say that I need help.

I ignore them every time. I can't talk my way out of this- whatever this is. 

But when they actually drive me to a help center, to a mental health doctor, and tell me to go in, I can't seem to muster up the strength to resist.