More

Wedged between the bed and the wall, lights turned on but down, so they cast faint shadows around the room. Just enough light to catch on the metal and glimmer nonobjective pictures on the wall. On the edge of tears, brimming with shame and living off your anger, amusment is found in making faces that reflect back from the razor blade. Stare at it all you please. Hold it firm and touch it to your skin. Don't you dare push and drag. No matter how much you want to. Need to, even. Don't do it. Make faces at yourself. Try to make yourself laugh. And you do laugh. Though not because you are cheering yourself up but because the attempt was so pathedic, laughing was the only way to keep from crying. What ever you do, don't expose your veins to the dim artifical light. "Oh god," you pray, "keep me from the destruction of my own hands. I am not safe. Please, help me. I am begging you for help." You sit silently and the silence causes thr small hope you had to fade away like morning dew. Then, with hopeless effort, you reach for your iPod and turn it on. Then you turn it up. Up. Up. Still you can't get the humming of self harm's song out of your head. You have heard its lyrics before but its been so long you've forgotten the words. Looking at the razor blade you know.. You know you can make your skin sing that same enchanting song again. Within minutes, the butterfly that slept on your wrist was violently awoke. Its barbed wire wings got caught in your skin as it fell to its death, opening your flesh at the perfect depth for the music to escape. You look down and see "more" has taken the butterflies place.