Demi Lovato & Miley Cyrus
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the last one thought the we had already been to mars….
30 degree sun
Childhood in one post
Visual representation of putting your trust in someone
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I lie awake in the stark darkness of my room, waiting for something new to happen. As I close my eyes, I hear my heart beating. Boom boom boom. Each rhythmic pound causing a new piece to fall off and shatter like a porcelain dish. I try to control my breathing. In. And out. In. And out. I stop. Inhale. Hold it. Exhale. Nothing. The constant chatter in my head ceases to quit. “Well what about me? What about this? What about that? Will he ever love me again?” All of it buzzing around in my mind, like an angry hornet’s nest. Now my eyes are wide open. Whatever! I toss over onto my left side. “I’m done thinking about it. I’m done caring.” I’m lying there again. I’m literally lying. Lying that everything will be ok. Lying that I don’t care and that I am finished. I close my eyes again as I come to this realization. I shut my lids tighter and tighter to keep the tears from gushing out. Those shattering plates have gone from slow and steady to frantic and uncontrollable, as my body convulses from the now muffled, yet deep sobs. I’m shaking my head. Back and forth. Back and forth. As if the movement will somehow make all the searing pain disappear. Then those horrific thoughts, so devious and troublesome, pop right back into my head. The ones that are constantly bickering me to do it again. I can hear their whispers from every direction, “You know you want to. What’s the big deal? You don’t have to do many of them. Come on just one. Just one long deep one. You know you love the way your skin gets bright red and puffy. You know the pain is much more bearable than this. Come on just do it. No one has to know. Just use your nails or a pencil, something sharp. Hide it under your clothes. No one will ever look again.” I can see it now. The sharpened pencil being struck into my arm. As I slowly drag it across my skin, I can see the first beautiful scarlet red bead begin to bubble out. I tear some more, now it’s gently trickling down my arm and staining my striped light blue comforter. I am wincing with every yank, but I do not stop. I stare at the wound as it turns into a gaping hole. It reminds me of those trenches that the city makes to create larger highway entrances and exits or wider streets. I laugh just a little, because then I think, “maybe I should get a ‘Caution! Open trench!’ sign.” Just more of my cynical humor. But wait! The illusion shatters from one thought, “that would be too obvious.” So I begin the “day dream” or night terror all over again. No pencil or sharp object. Instead I noticed that my nails are just long enough. This time, I get up from my bed and walk over to my mirror. As I remove the TShirt that I am wearing, my eyes wander up and down my torso and I stare at myself in disgust. I take one more look up and down, then stop at my stomach. I place one hand over the left side, and as quickly as removing a band aid, I scratch entirely across it. My skin begins to swell and change from light brown to pink in five different lines. I turn my head to the right so that my chin turns up towards the left and I stare at the marks. Unsatisfied, I place my hand over my stomach again and create an additional five lines. I continue until my stomach is completely pink, yet the sight of it still does not satisfy me. My eyes twitch back and forth between every puffy scratch. “What more do I need?” Then I stop and noticed one mark is different. One mark has dark red spots. The thought enters my mind like a familiar, yet unwanted guest. “Make it bleed,” echoes in my head. Gently and with the tip of my index finger, I retrace the bulging line on the side of my stomach. Back and forth. Back and forth. Once I reach the beginning of it again, I stop. I place the tip of my nail to it and very sluggishly I pull it across my skin. Back and forth. Back and forth. I can feel the oh so familiar stinging. My body screams out in pain, as my demented brain moans in pleasure. Once I can feel the warm red fluid sliding down my abdomen, I stop. I throw my TShirt back on and can feel the fabric sticking to the open wound. I lie back down in my bed, ready for my now exhausted body to go unconscious. I exhale one last time, before my eye lids finally collapse and I enter dream world. I. Am. Satisfied. “For now,” the thought whispers inside of my head.
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