Never Enough Time

Jun 02, 2008 - 16:20 PM PST

I haven't let myself think about how ridiculous this entire thing feels. It's funny how sometimes time can't go fast enough, and then when it's gone you want it back. But, do I really? I'm racing toward my nine month line for not cutting myself. That's longer than ever for me. Every day, every moment since 5 months ago is a new feat. It's enough time for 2 cells to have become someones life, to have become a life of it's own. But, is it enough time really? It's not enough time to forget how pretty I think the crimson of my own blood with look if it was seeping up, soaking the white linen of my shirt sleeves. It's not enough time to forget how it takes such a short period of time for the thin red lines to show me how good I did with the razor blade. It's not enough minutes to replace how proud I feel for the first few seconds when I feel the sweet sting after the drag. And it's not nearly enough to let the incredible sweet numbness that follows that sting leave my mind. It's not what alot of people think it is either. It was never just my arms, and for a long time, it was never on my arms. You do it where you can, when you can, for whatever reason. Sometimes for no reason at all, maybe because you're alone and you know you won't have another opportunity for awhile. When you feel the anger, the sadness, brewing inside you like a witches cauldron of disappointment and hatred, eating your body from the inside out. That's why it happens. You have to get that poison out of your veins, and the only way out is up and through the layers of skin. Up to the surface where it's heat feels smooth and comforting on the tips of your fingers. You just sit there until it cools and hardens like cookies fresh from the oven, as gruesome a thought as that may be. There are billions of reasons really. I've known a few who marked their real feats with scars, happy or sad. Graduation, their parents passing. Each remembered as a line of scar tissue on his chest. That's another thing, boys do it too. Old, young, married, alone, boy, girl, black, white, there is no face to this. It is everyone's face, it is my face it is blank and featureless, emotionally empty. But it is scared, cut, bloody, bruised, burned. It is everything and nothing, all at once.