| Written by Diana, on 18-09-2001 23:35 |
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Lifting the blade for the very first time felt like retrieving ice for a burn--that "oh I know I should be using water" kind of feeling, but I didn't care. This cure was quick and painless. Releasing anger through the skin was easier than holding it in and pretending it didn't exist. Running the razor across all the places on my body i could hide was like staring mental anguish in the face and saying "Hah! You will not conquer me!" Drawing lines across my wrists like marks on a jail cell wall--time spent locked up with myself, the more experience i got, the more lines i accumulated. Or maybe like a paint brush, drawing out the pain inside me, telling what words could not explain. I could see myself in the razor's face, a mirror into my soul. So tortured yet serene, filled with diseased blood, boiling inside me. I must create an outlet for it, let my veins cool down. it calmed my nerves--by cutting, i lost all sense of reality.
(college poetry assignment)
Last update: 20-12-2006 20:27
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