Broken Heart and Broken Bones

Sometimes I secretly want to go back to being my old self. Back to hating. Back to cutting. Back to the only place where I could feel comfortable and secure - and be by myself at the same time. I mean... People are always like: "Nooo, Emmaaa, it's baaad, so baaad, like, the worst of bad habits, seriouslyyy," (and then take another drag on their cancerstick), but just... just hear it from my side, the side of this one, neurotic cunt with the same issues as a puppy:

You sit on your bed in your room.

You randomly glance at the clock, barely noticing the numbers on it.

Now you've already forgotten what it said, but think it was probably around 4AM.

Which would mean it's about an hour ago you finally got your mother, drunk as FUCK, to go to bed.

You sigh as your sister took your dog to her bed, so you can't even find any comfort in cuddling up with him.

Suddenly, your heart beats a bit faster as, out of nowhere, your brain decides to remember things you've done up until now, embarrassing things that make you squirm in the mental pain it causes you.

You decide the only way to clear them off is by counterattacking it; hurting yourself.

As you are a bit beat, you don't have the powers for bashing your own head against the wall. Or pulling on your own hair. So you decide to cut.

First thing you do is finding a blade. You don't have any obtainable razors, so when this happens, you gotta improvise. You find a small pair of scissors. Somehow they seem sharp enough.

Next you grab your headphones, thinking about all the people having asked you: "Why do you use those? Why not just some earphones?" And you always returning with: "Because I don't just hear music - I listen to it."

You unlock your iPod and put the complete list of all your Nirvana songs on shuffle.

You pull up your trouser leg.

You get ready to slashing your own leg - having very long time ago decided to only cut your legs, as you don't want anybody to know of your nasty, disgusting secret, feeling that everyone will call you an attention whore and wannabe.

You then feel sorta guilty for thinking that people will even care enough about you to do so.

You start thinking about why anyone would ever care about a helpless, sickening fucker like you in the first place.

By now you notice blood slowly starting to trickle down your leg.

You realise you forgot to get something to wipe it off with.

You look around your room and take one of the nearby, randomly discarded clothings on the floor - making sure it's black so it won't have any visible blood stains.

You dab the cut gently before once again putting the blade to your leg.

You slowly start having an almost euphoric feeling, simply by being in the midst of Kurt Cobain's beautiful lyrics and the knowledge of what you're doing as of now.

When you feel you have 'revenged' on yourself enough, you hide the scissors, grab your pillow and slowly crawl back to bed, hissing at the cold air hitting your wounds.

As you lie in a fetal position, tugging on your fresh wounds, you fall asleep in a stage between sadness and pleasantry.

You wake up the next morning, stretching.

You make a minor flinch at the sudden sting you feel.

You smile to yourself in the knowledge, that until these wounds have healed up, you will feel only physical pain - not mental. That these marks, for that long, will be your secret symbol of having repented, at least a little, for earlier mistakes.

You brush a hand over your wounds, thinking about how to get out of P.E. this week.