Cutting is a beautiful thing
That exact moment the edge of the blade connects with your skin in a long blissfully antagonizing line you try to perfect, in order to sustain its beauty.
The pain of it is wonderous
it distracts you from your own Heartache for a split second...but then it's gone.
You begin to thirst for that relif so you make another and another till you've created your masterpiece.
The crimson paint splashed across your convus,followed by the contour lines tralling till the edges of you wrists are covered.
As you move on you start to go deeper to unravel the hidden paint behind that annoying thick flesh in the way of your work.
But the best feeling is the next mornings pain reminding you of your lifes work, you pull up your sleeves just to bask in its glory one more time.
Three days later your art starts to change, develop character per say, some may say it comes alive, tells a story.
Each cut tells a story.
But like every other thing in this world all beautiful things die, like a red rose in the winter. You slowly wither inside.
You are once again left to wollow in your despondency, with ugly black markings that highlight your misery.
You try your best to cover them up with makeup and long sleeved shirts.
BUT THE UGLY TRUTH IS YOUR DEPRESSED.
YOU ARE READING
It's Life
RandomFor the ones who know things don't change They just become bearable Once you can't bare it you numb it till you can *this is not a book for the faint hearted, read at own risk and don't let anything said in this book trigger you into doing anything...
