AN: There are no errors. Every word, every space, everything is done on purpose.

Call it creepy.

Call it weird.

Call it masochistic.

I don't care.

You don't know,

you can't fathom

how it feels

to see your blood well up

fill the tiny little channels

in your skin.

Watch your skin turn red,

then fade to pink,

then finally to white.

You don't know

how it feels

to see your blood reach up

toward the stars,

dying white to red

in a matter of seconds.

You don't know

what it's like

to have your whole life

hang in the balance of

a pushed up sleeve.

To harbor secrets

so much darker

than the darkest of guesses.

You can't know

the feeling of a defaced cross

forever imprinted in your skin

when you press you arm against

something flat.

You can't understand

the easiness of a trance.

The lack of thought,

except maybe

"look how pretty"

or perhaps

"Bleed, bleed, bleed!"

You think you know

the pressure of-

not the blade,

because that's not all

I use. More-

sharp objects,

but you don't.

You think it's all emotional,

bring mental pain to

physical pain.

or it's a pathetic plea for

attention.

or it makes me feel better.

or I want to fit in.

or .

or.

or.

All this psychological

devaluation.

It's all

wrong.

Chemical imbalance?

I guess we'll never know.

I'm sure as hell

not getting

tested.

So you can throw me away

and lock up the key-

or is it the other way around?

No, you're out of

your mind.

You want to overanalyze

me,

over complicate

me.

It's simple.

I want to see myself

bleed.

I want to see what's supposed

to be on the inside

on the outside.

Why does there have to be more?

Why do you have to blame my depression?

or Mommy?

or Daddy?

Because that's the most widely accepted

excuse?

Rather than the truth?

Why would you rather believe

lies?

It shouldn't be so hard

to find a name for this.

A name that doesn't also apply

to biological disorders.

That's not what this is.

This is something

solely

in my brain.

Neither

nature

nor nurture

but

a neurosis

that simply

is.

I have a

neutral

relationship with my

'disorder'.

I don't try to do away with it,

and it doesn't try to

kill me.

But you don't believe that.

It's not healthy.

It's bad.

You spout off meaningless

factsstatistcs

about suicides

in my age group.

How some

-emotional!-

cutters

accidently go too far

resulting in their

death.

SHUTUP!

I know what

you're saying.

I understand

the statistics.

I know why

you're concerned.

I get it.

But I'm ok.

Honestly, I am.

It may not seem like it,

I know,

but I swear it's true.

I'm ok with who I am.

I have no shame.

Really.

You don't know

how this is.

so just leave me

alone

and help someone

who really needs it.

Because I.

Do.

Not.