The New Cut
Some people cut their skin, the little pain staving off the greater, if only for a little while. It leaves scars that are hard to hide, especially on the inside or outside of the left forearm, because most people are right-handed.
There's a new "cut" in town. The theory of the little sting keeping away the larger- the same. It's just a different place for the pain to be expressed.
Hair. Every girl's weakness. We play with it when we're bored or thinking; gotta brush it every morning, braid it, put it in a ponytail, arrange it, maybe just leave it lying loose. But have you ever had an itch on your scalp? Just a little thing that you wanted to scratch? Brushed it, had a knot and pulled until something gave, and then it pulled your hair and it hurt?
That's the form of it.
Two little ridges of shorter hair on either side of my scalp; two places where innumerable little stings held away _my_ "great pain." Not so great, you know; I'm just a teenager, no more miserable than most. We all have some angst in our lives, some worries we can't change the outcome of, can only sit there and hope that things "work out" and have our imaginations run wild about what will happen if they don't. Well, I do.
If you don't know what on earth I'm talking about... if you don't know about the people with little slices on their skin and little knives in their desks... well, if I was still sure that I had my soul, I'd hock it gladly to change places. Or maybe I wouldn't. You see, conscience is different than soul. Soul can only fray, be blistered, burned, rotted. Conscience can regret the rotting, catalogue the dropped threads, cry over the ragged holes. And my conscience, out of some faint hope for redemption, will not agree to expose the still-innocent (I'm sure they're out there- absolutely _sure_ of it) to my crimes, and my cooperation in other people's crimes. I've stood by not knowing what to do and seen happy people learn things that made them need some form of forbidden relief. I'm not a druggie; I think cigarettes are the filthiest things in the world. My addiction is totally accidental.
Accident, my ass. I knew what I was doing. And now I wear my hair up so no one can see the ragged patches where I tore apart my soul so I wouldn't have to separate it from my body just out of mortal pain. It's growing back; I'm discreet now; and my sense of humor is back, a little. It was when I lost it altogether that I was so open to that new cut. Humor is my final defense and defiance; that, and pride.
Holding back tears in my friend's church, wishing for what I haven't got, I said to the friend trying to let me cry (and I wish I could have) "Leave me my pride." One of the Seven "Deadly" Sins. And it's standing between me and the darkness. And if it steps aside...
Well, I might get back out eventually. But I already know what it's like down there. I fought my way back up on my own the first time. This time I would have help if I could bring myself to ask for it. Pride. Two edges to it, aren't there?
I just wanted to tell you about the New Cut. I just want someone to remember that "new" doesn't mean better, new doesn't mean "safe," and "new" does _not_ mean "good." It's a new form on an old addiction, and it hurts. The _point_ is to hurt.
You know, to me, cutting is more healthy than drugs. Drugs make you feel good. But by the nature of the razor, it hurts. The pain keeps us sane and able to quit, you know. We're farther from the edge than the souls who have deluded themselves into dreamworld. Blood is not supposed to be outside the body in that way. In the back of the heart, we know it. And we can all be dragged out of the darkness. All of us. Every one.
Maybe even me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have a nice day. And don't puncture anything important. Like yourself. Killing off the only person that you _know_ you'll always have to deal with isn't smart. It may be ironic, but irony doesn't make intelligence.
Some people cut their skin, the little pain staving off the greater, if only for a little while. It leaves scars that are hard to hide, especially on the inside or outside of the left forearm, because most people are right-handed.
There's a new "cut" in town. The theory of the little sting keeping away the larger- the same. It's just a different place for the pain to be expressed.
Hair. Every girl's weakness. We play with it when we're bored or thinking; gotta brush it every morning, braid it, put it in a ponytail, arrange it, maybe just leave it lying loose. But have you ever had an itch on your scalp? Just a little thing that you wanted to scratch? Brushed it, had a knot and pulled until something gave, and then it pulled your hair and it hurt?
That's the form of it.
Two little ridges of shorter hair on either side of my scalp; two places where innumerable little stings held away _my_ "great pain." Not so great, you know; I'm just a teenager, no more miserable than most. We all have some angst in our lives, some worries we can't change the outcome of, can only sit there and hope that things "work out" and have our imaginations run wild about what will happen if they don't. Well, I do.
If you don't know what on earth I'm talking about... if you don't know about the people with little slices on their skin and little knives in their desks... well, if I was still sure that I had my soul, I'd hock it gladly to change places. Or maybe I wouldn't. You see, conscience is different than soul. Soul can only fray, be blistered, burned, rotted. Conscience can regret the rotting, catalogue the dropped threads, cry over the ragged holes. And my conscience, out of some faint hope for redemption, will not agree to expose the still-innocent (I'm sure they're out there- absolutely _sure_ of it) to my crimes, and my cooperation in other people's crimes. I've stood by not knowing what to do and seen happy people learn things that made them need some form of forbidden relief. I'm not a druggie; I think cigarettes are the filthiest things in the world. My addiction is totally accidental.
Accident, my ass. I knew what I was doing. And now I wear my hair up so no one can see the ragged patches where I tore apart my soul so I wouldn't have to separate it from my body just out of mortal pain. It's growing back; I'm discreet now; and my sense of humor is back, a little. It was when I lost it altogether that I was so open to that new cut. Humor is my final defense and defiance; that, and pride.
Holding back tears in my friend's church, wishing for what I haven't got, I said to the friend trying to let me cry (and I wish I could have) "Leave me my pride." One of the Seven "Deadly" Sins. And it's standing between me and the darkness. And if it steps aside...
Well, I might get back out eventually. But I already know what it's like down there. I fought my way back up on my own the first time. This time I would have help if I could bring myself to ask for it. Pride. Two edges to it, aren't there?
I just wanted to tell you about the New Cut. I just want someone to remember that "new" doesn't mean better, new doesn't mean "safe," and "new" does _not_ mean "good." It's a new form on an old addiction, and it hurts. The _point_ is to hurt.
You know, to me, cutting is more healthy than drugs. Drugs make you feel good. But by the nature of the razor, it hurts. The pain keeps us sane and able to quit, you know. We're farther from the edge than the souls who have deluded themselves into dreamworld. Blood is not supposed to be outside the body in that way. In the back of the heart, we know it. And we can all be dragged out of the darkness. All of us. Every one.
Maybe even me.
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Have a nice day. And don't puncture anything important. Like yourself. Killing off the only person that you _know_ you'll always have to deal with isn't smart. It may be ironic, but irony doesn't make intelligence.