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Description
And here I lay again, panting and wiping the sweat from my brow. It's the third time this week, and it's only Monday. Yes, I'm talking about what you think I am. Yes, I am ashamed, but I've deemed my actions necessary to keep me slightly sane. At the same time, I almost think the process is more maddening than productive.

It takes less time to reach my goal, less coaxing and enticing thought to bring myself to brief euphoria. At the initial stroke, I cease to be a creature of thought and become no more than a vessel of need. At the finish, there's a 5 second lapse in my being: no thought, no emotion, no black or white, right or wrong. Numbness is what I crave, not seritonin. I do not act for pleasure; I lost such textbook motives long ago. Now it is a pathetic excuse for an escape. Now I question whether its even worth it.

I made myself bleed today.

See? I bled for you. I bled because I tried to run. I forgot to forget you, and in an attempt to correct that fatal mistake, I made myself hurt. I always thought my practice was one step above self-mutilation, but today I proved that I'm no more than an internal cutter. I bled for you.

You. You are so many things to me. The reason I am, the reason I'm not. The reason I made it out alright, the reason I'm fucked. You're the reason I didn't do these things sooner. You're the reason I do these things now. It stings. Its quite uncomfortable, but not as bad as the thought of you with someone else.

Oops, I've said too much. If I smile pretty and say my 'please and thank you's, then you'll never know. I'd tell you if you asked --I'd tell you anything, really-- but you'd never dare such an intrusion. Or are you afraid of what you know you've done to me?

Would you judge me, if you knew what I do? Would you shun me, if you knew it was because of you?

I've been lying to myself--the 5 seconds of solitude has dwindled down to 2. When my pace slows, your face shows, and my head begins to pound with the vigor I put forth to erase the 'never-been's and 'never-will-be's. I'm going to have to change my repertoire. Up the ante, or change my routine completely. I'm not sure I'm ready to face the world without my 2 seconds of untainted silence. No matter the technique-the variation in speed or pressure, how much I bleed-I can't get rid of you. Its a paradox you've thrown me in, head first without a life jacket. Paradox. You said you always liked that word.

You.

Why you?

Why me?

Why not you and me?

Oops, I've gone too far. I hurt on the inside, and I'm tired. I just washed my hands. But if I expect to sleep at all tonight, I better go back for round 2.

Description
And here I lay again, panting and wiping the sweat from my brow. It's the third time this week, and it's only Monday. Yes, I'm talking about what you think I am. Yes, I am ashamed, but I've deemed my actions necessary to keep me slightly sane. At the same time, I almost think the process is more maddening than productive.

It takes less time to reach my goal, less coaxing and enticing thought to bring myself to brief euphoria. At the initial stroke, I cease to be a creature of thought and become no more than a vessel of need. At the finish, there's a 5 second lapse in my being: no thought, no emotion, no black or white, right or wrong. Numbness is what I crave, not seritonin. I do not act for pleasure; I lost such textbook motives long ago. Now it is a pathetic excuse for an escape. Now I question whether its even worth it.

I made myself bleed today.

See? I bled for you. I bled because I tried to run. I forgot to forget you, and in an attempt to correct that fatal mistake, I made myself hurt. I always thought my practice was one step above self-mutilation, but today I proved that I'm no more than an internal cutter. I bled for you.

You. You are so many things to me. The reason I am, the reason I'm not. The reason I made it out alright, the reason I'm fucked. You're the reason I didn't do these things sooner. You're the reason I do these things now. It stings. Its quite uncomfortable, but not as bad as the thought of you with someone else.

Oops, I've said too much. If I smile pretty and say my 'please and thank you's, then you'll never know. I'd tell you if you asked --I'd tell you anything, really-- but you'd never dare such an intrusion. Or are you afraid of what you know you've done to me?

Would you judge me, if you knew what I do? Would you shun me, if you knew it was because of you?

I've been lying to myself--the 5 seconds of solitude has dwindled down to 2. When my pace slows, your face shows, and my head begins to pound with the vigor I put forth to erase the 'never-been's and 'never-will-be's. I'm going to have to change my repertoire. Up the ante, or change my routine completely. I'm not sure I'm ready to face the world without my 2 seconds of untainted silence. No matter the technique-the variation in speed or pressure, how much I bleed-I can't get rid of you. Its a paradox you've thrown me in, head first without a life jacket. Paradox. You said you always liked that word.

You.

Why you?

Why me?

Why not you and me?

Oops, I've gone too far. I hurt on the inside, and I'm tired. I just washed my hands. But if I expect to sleep at all tonight, I better go back for round 2.