I’ve grown so cold as I’ve grown older. I’ve pushed people out because I just can’t deal with anything anymore.
If I killed myself, I wouldn’t want anyone to know about me for a long time. But there’s this small, selfish, part of me that wants my death to be more than a tumblr post. I feel like I have to prove something. But I’m nothing special.
When I see a picture of cuts, the room spins. My ears get hot, and I hear a loud ringing. My chest wells up, my craving kicks in. I want, need, release. I want the pop of the skin, the gap after the blade, the gushing of blood, the panic when I think it won’t stop. I would even deal with the guilt after, just for the momentary high of cutting.
