Where? Where is it? Where is my blade? Any scissors, or even a knife will do. I just need to cut. Now. I can't forget being molested at eight years old. It pains me. I'm grief stricken. Here I am, in fetal position, rocking back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. Hot tears flood my eyes and stream down my face. Flashes of images invade my mind. I shake the feeling that it will happen again by the same person. No, don't think about it, stay calm, stay calm, stay calm.............. I breath heavily. My nostrils might rip. I can't take it. I frantically scramble for the nearest scissors. Quite dull, but that's alright. Slash! Slash! Slash! The harmonious cutting temporarily hides my pain. I rip my skin, saw away at my flesh, and smile crazily. Have I truly lost my mind? I slice, I cut, I rip away at my flesh, and a sudden food of relief flushes through my veins..... The blood rises like yeast on bread, and trickles on my bed. My hands tremble and shake so violently that I drop my scissors. I'm at peace....for now....
Tag der Veröffentlichung: 14.11.2012
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