Bleeding

Bleeding

Oh, god. I'm sorry I've brought you here. I love you so much. I want
you to look at me. I want you to see what I've done. I want you to tell
me to stop.

Why, how did it get this far?

Could you look at me? Could you take some of this pain from me? I'm so
tired. I know why I cut. I've had an epiphany. It simulates death, the
sleep that follows, the drained drifting. Dreams. Dreams of better
days. The sinking from pain to the joy of sleep where I can escape from
myself, where I am free to imagine contentment and happiness without
retribution. I can be happy and not cut, not hurt myself, not hurt
you.

I'm bleeding now. I want to tell you how I feel. I can't do that in
hindsight. A lot of blood though. Even now, it's after. The moment is
past. I wish you could be there, understand. To share. To see. I hope
you never see this.

I do this because I love you and I want you to hate me, to be so
repelled that you'll go and never come back. I need you tell me that
there's no point in trying to be normal because it'll never work and
there's no way you could ever love me. I need you to tell me that you
love me so much that it hurts you to see me doing this to myself. I
need you to comfort me, to tell me that it'll all be okay one day and
you'll always be there.

I need you to laugh at me because I'm ridiculous and I need you to cry
because it's tragic. I need you to tell me that I'm worthless and I
need you tell me that you can't live without me.

Dreams of better days that have been; where I pretend that we're
together and we're together and that?

Dreams of better days to come; they are harder because I've got nothing
to base them on. I don't have the template and your face slips, twists
from my mind's eye and you're not you, you're another one. I loved the
other ones and they never loved me. They never told me to stop, they
never told me to just finish it.

Every time I cut myself I pull myself closer to a vein hoping that by
accident I'll bleed out and drift into the dreams. Then I think about
you and it's worth it again because you make want to pull myself closer
to the vein. To the vein.

You can see them, the veins. It should be so easy but you stop me every
time. Every time.

I don't want to sleep now. I want to talk. I want to talk to you.

I can't talk. I'll just fill this blank, surrogate fucking page.

Why can't you love me?

If I was good looking my sad little habits would be cute and my
disorders would be a pity. If I was good looking I would be deep
because why would someone good looking do this to themselves. When
you're not, you have low self esteem because you're fat and ugly.

I cut myself because I am ugly. I am ugly because everyone says I am.
My grotesque body is only the part you see. You can't see the inside -
some of it is beautiful but I can't be worth it if you can't see
through the physical. Is it because my body is so vile or because the
inside is so shallow, bruised, hideous? Is it both? That's why I cut
myself. I shred the inside and the outside and I pare and peel because
I want you to know how fucked up I am and I enjoy it, god help me, I
enjoy it, so it must be right. I do it so you'll pity me. Why can't you
just hate me?

I hate myself more because I make you sound shallow but you're not,
you're just the same as me. I hate myself and I couldn't love how I
look and I'm shallow because you are so beautiful. But you are more, I
know you are much more - to have your strength? I wish I didn't love
you, it degrades you to have me love you. I'm so sorry.

I'm ranting and I'm sorry I brought you here. I'm pretending to tell
you this. You're here because I believe you are, I believe that you'll
hate me when you read this because I'm a selfish fuck and I should keep
this to myself. I think if you could make me stop you would. I want to
stop but I swore that I would be honest where I could and I now I hate
myself for that. I want to stop writing now because it's horrible and
confused. These words are worse than the words of a drunk or a junkie,
pissed or high.

You're not here. Why can't I make you happy? I try. I have tried. It
fixes everything when you just smile. Why can't I make you smile
more?

When you smile it breaks my heart. I can't look at you because you are
so beautiful. I can't look at myself because you are so beautiful - I
can't make eye contact with myself because I know what I am. I can look
into your eyes and I can get lost in them - even for a second.
Sometimes I can't remember your face, but I remember your eyes. Your
eyes.

In what time I have with you I spend absorbing the little things you do
that make you you. I can't list them because you'll know who you are
then, but I see them and I love you for them and I hate myself because
I can't tell you that I love you for them.

Why do I think I can offer you anything? How can I love someone who I
can't do anything for? I'm dead weight. If I don't pull you down it'll
be because you let me sink. Let me sink.

I can't offer you anything. If I can't why do I bother? Because of the
smile. I feel important if I can make you smile.

That's how I cut. I imagine giving you everything I have - none of
these things I own are important, this body, these books, these wounds.
I give you all of me and you laugh because it isn't enough. It can
never be enough. I'm so damaged that it can never be enough.

I can do so much I can write I can fight I can care I can fix things I
can cook I can clean I can hold down a job I can protect what I hold
dear I can step back I can be there when I'm needed I can do anything.
I can do nothing because I can do all these things and you still don't
love me. I don't wish that you loved me, I wish that I was someone you
could love. I wish I could change into that person. I could be
everything you wanted, I could try.

I've brought you here with me and I'm so egotistical that I believe
you'll care when you read this, but you won't because I'm not worth it.
You won't because you don't know who you are. You don't know who you
are because I can never tell you. I can never tell you now because
you've read this and you'll hate me. I keep telling myself that I'll
tell you one day, but now I can't because I've shown you part of my
soul here and you can see how damaged it is. Part of me hopes that you
recognise yourself and know how I feel and know that I want nothing
from you but for you to be happy.

I hope that

What's the fucking point?