Akrasia

My weakness, my akrasia. How I watch you bleed from me, a beautiful relief to feel again. What would I do without you? No one else understands, I can’t stop this, I’m not strong enough to. I am weak, but this feeling makes me strong. Yet it is my weakness? What an irony life seems to have.

Watch you bleed from me, giving me pain, giving me purpose. My sweet weakness. What is blood anyway? It is meant to make us live, and so I am helping it make me alive by forcing it out. Sweet, sweet pain. Without it, I don’t feel alive, I don’t feel whole.

Crazy? That’s what they say I am. I am not well, I am a danger to myself. But they don’t understand sweet, sweet akrasia, danger is what I hate but love. How do I know I’m still alive if I don’t feel close to death?

Strange how they look at me with such horror, see the wounds on my wrists as a poison. Foolish, foolish people. You do not know, you cannot feel what I do, you are all empty, not knowing what life is truly like. I know I am alive, I feel it with the sweet pain. Can you say the same? Can you defend your existence if you not so near to death?

My dear, dear weakness. They will never understand this. They will never know the feeling I do everytime I cut skin. It is my skin, and I want to see it scarred, beautiful, beautiful scars. Ugly to others, but they have scars too, mine are just more clear. Why must I hide it? What is the point? They remind me of what I can’t stop, even if I tried to, I can’t stop.

Oh akrasia, what am I doing? My poor poor skin. Why can I not stop this? Why do I convince myself it is okay? I cannot stop this cutting, and so I try to believe it is good. It makes me feel alive, I never feel alive without the blood going.

I am not cutting at the moment, can you tell? Is it why I feel so low, feel so dirty for what I do? But I can’t stop, even now my skin itches to be cut, the blood pounds to be free. I feel like a shell, I feel so empty. Must let it cut, must let it flow…

I hate feeling so empty, my weakness. I only feel strong when I cut. Why? Why must the one thing I should not do feel so, so good? I don’t understand.

Perhaps I will not stop next time, perhaps I shouldn’t try to feel alive.

Perhaps I should continue. I should no longer live as this shell.

Yes, sweet akrasia, let us find a knife once more. This time, I will cut deeper. This time I will not stop the flow.