Something from last May or so - I really was trying to portray a sense of satisfaction and euphoria that can come from self-mutilation to one of my friends, but this is what came out instead. Enjoy.

~

Silence consumes, weaving one in a patterned embrace of silk and metal, sharp metal, sweet, sharp metal which pierces the skin to mend the soul. The body's own impenetrable armor is cut down in a single, fluid motion.

Alas, the metal that can cure the soul of such want and need has been hidden, taken from one who needs it the most. Such agony cannot be portrayed by words, by body language; only can it be heard, rising from the depths of the mind and spirit into the eyes of the vessel, screaming, crying out for some relief, some form of destruction through which one may achieve one's own, personal Nirvana.

However, what I have cannot be taken from me. They may steal my blades and my freedom, and yet there is always something they forget, something they will never think to check.

Me.

Of course! How silly of them! What a mistake! It is not the things that mark me how I am that are a danger unto me, something I must be protected from. What they want to do, to guard me from this demon, is impossible, for what they wish to guard against happens to be what they are guarding.

Does that make sense? Do my insane ramblings ring a delicate bell in your puny, thoughtless brain? Or am I still simply the bane of your existence? You long to live on my side, to see things the way I do; I know, because I can see it in your eyes. The lust drowns every other emotion you could be hiding. I drag my nails heavily over the scar- toughened skin of my forearm; though blunt, they still manage to draw a few minute beads of crimson love. How can such a tempting delicacy continue to elude your tastes?

I do not know; or, perhaps, I choose not to know. This is my life, my form of sanity; note the possessive pronoun. It is mine and mine alone; I cannot possibly expect one so perfect as you to comprehend.

Do you cry? I mean, at night, when you are alone, without human company. I do. I cry, for I will never know you as intimately as I know myself. I weep for the chance lost, the cost of never finding one another. Or perhaps you wish not to find me. Would you rather leave me to my talk of nothing, of everything, and wander alone to find your solitude? If so, we have something in common. We both enjoy solitude. How very ironic, that I should pine after you and yet wish to remain alone, away from the jeers of society that bruise my soul and bring me back to the subject in question.

Does it disgust you? Do you hate me now, because of what I do, because of what I've done to you? I could teach you to love it, to savor every moment of the high it can achieve, and yet I would hate to mar that beauty that makes you who you are. I can stay in my corner, you in yours, me with my scars and you with your pale, pale skin that has known the pain of hardship and yet never the joy of a blade.

I ask you not to accept me, not to forgive me, only to realize that the very thing that keeps us apart is the only thing that is keeping me sane. To give it up and have you would be to leave my sanity and take my love, which I could never do; if ever the opportunity arose in which the insanity were hindering in any way, I am unsure I could stop myself from hurting you again.

And my bloodstained lips will forever whisper one thing, for one person: "I love you," for it is that truth alone that forces me to push you away once more and reach for my sanity.