sometimes i just want to be allowed to die. i thought if you suffered this much you were let to be put down but it seems i've got to cling to this pain with cramping hands and bruised knuckles and bloody fingersMature

the only thing keeping my sheets warm are the ghosts that hold my arms down at night

i just want to want to live

do you get this, does anybody understand?
i'm a fucking lonely person with sticks for bones
trying to give up what has amounted to an addiction

and here's the worst part:
i know i should want to stop. 

i know i should, yet i don't want to - 
i don't want to stop, want to keep carving my body 
into the punishments i give myself
because i'm such a fucking failure

but i know i shouldn't.
so i'm trying not to, 
shocks of pain from a rubber band snapped around my wrist
and here's a fucking tidbit:
i never cut on my wrist, not once, 

because i was always afraid that if i did, 
i would never stop. 

and i would bleed out on my bathroom tiles

but i don't even care anymore. 
not like i'm going to tell anyone, though, 
because though there is a slight tolerance
for my heavy sadness, gummy and clinging to my teeth, 
nobody will listen to me past the words
"I'm afraid I've cut myself"

(i know how this routine goes, 
seen it with dead eyes and my sister's face)

(and look how that worked out for her)

so this will be my dirty little secret
like everything else seems to be, 
tucked into the place in my heart where i keep 
all of the things i am ashamed of. 

like the swollen ring around my ankle
where all i could think of was the craving 
for pain, for a mark, for something to prove i was not useless

and i know i've hinted at it with friends, 
seeking blood in panic-filled rambles to CC, 
and a pained tone taken to conversations
about a self-harmer that RH knows

so i'm trying, trying, 
even though i know
on some level 

that it's a little too late:

i'm already dead inside. 

The End

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