self-injury.net

I kept cutting, because it worked. When I cut, I felt better for a while. When I cut, my life no longer overwhelmed me. I felt too keenly the thread of chaos, of how things can get away from you in a thousand ways. Bodies expand, grades plummet, pets die, paint peels, ice caps melt, genocide erupts. Entropy keeps eating at the ramparts, and I cut to shore them up. I cut to lay down a line between before and after, between self and other, chaos and clarity. I cut as an affirmation of hope, saying, I have drawn the line and I am still on this side of it.

Françoise could not help taking a surreptitious glance at Xavière: she gave a start of amazement.  Xavière was no longer watching, her head was lowered.  in her right hand, she held a half-smoked cigarette, which she was slowly moving toward her left hand.  Françoise barely suppressed a scream.  The girl was pressing the lighted end against her skin, a bitter smile curling her lips.  It was an intimate, solitary smile, like that of a half-wit; the voluptuous, tortured smile of a woman possessed of some secret pleasure.  The sight of it was almost unbearable, it concealed something horrible. Read more »

You told me that the scars you bear are bear are beautiful and real
So turn the lights back on again
I want to see the things you feel