Bitterly, I cry. I knew this was the wrong thing to do, but now it's all too late. I can't tell you the truth because you'll hate me even more. Perhaps more than I hate myself.
I hate myself because of what I did, but I hate myself more because of what it made me do. The lies I told to cover up for everything I was driven to do by that one, unquenchable desire: love. Perhaps I really was in love. Pathetic, for someone of my age to be held so by such a petty thing. Pathetic, for someone of my age to go to such extremes.
And then to be driven to lie to cover up the truth.
Every day when I'm getting dressed I have to look at my arm. The scar is fading but not faded, a brown line that will remain perhaps forever. It cuts across like a road through open countryside. It's a symbol of my pain. It's a symbol of my desperation.
It wasn't death I wanted. More that I wanted attention. Yes, that was it: I was a selfish attention seeker. Well, I've paid the price now. The hatred I feel for myself and revulsion at my actions is more than I ever thought I would pay for one moment.
And yet when my friends ask me why I have an answer: because the pain outside makes the pain inside not seem so bad. They never understand what I mean, but of course I do. And it seems to make perfect sense.
A lot of things make sense when you're hurting.
But now that I'm happy again it only takes a glance for me to sink back into a well of hatred. Did I know at the time that I would feel this way? Somehow I doubt it. Self harm seems at first such a glorious prospect and yet here I am. I can never forgive myself.
I hate myself far too much to ever let go.