Contemplations of a Cutter

God, I feel awful. I looked in the mirror. The face looking back at me seemed familiar, like someone I know. But not me. It wasn't me. Please... it can't be... can I really be that ugly, that pathetic...? It can't be me... why aren't I pretty, clever, popular, talented? Why am I stuck being someone I hate? Surely it's not healthy to look at random people on the street and wish you were them, simply because they seem more attractive and have better lives than you do...

I want to cut. But it would make it worse. Wouldn't it? Or would it help... it would certainly make me feel more alive, less empty... I shouldn't be condemned for doing it. I should be congratulated for finding a way to stay alive. Because if I didn't have a way to relieve some of my mental anguish, I would have ended it all long ago.

I have a blade infront of me, from a stanely knife. As I type these words, I can see it lying there out of the corner of my eye. Shall I pick it up? Am I strong enough to do it, or am I strong enough to resist? Am I weak enough to give in to it, or too weak to pick it up? Makes sense to me, not to you... either way I'm weak or strong, but which one am I...? People say I'm strong. They don't know me. I'm weak. Weak, pathetic, worthless... there is no place in this world for a person like me. No place at all.