Who would fuck something like me?

from the second you start to self harm, you can never really stop. the very second it gets « that bad » your body becomes a scarred, ugly atlas of every woe your soul has ever felt. It doesn’t really matter how you do it, though. you can hold a little metal rod in the flame of a candle and then press it into your skin. you can steal a blade and cut yourself open and smell the salty flesh under your ugly fucking skin, covered in layers and layers of cuts. we can punch our self and hit ourselves until our bodies become the fucked up, bruised little satin prunes that we should be. We can pump ourselves full of curious chemicals and psychedelics and sexy stimulants that make our bodies haunted crack houses. we could starve until our skin is nothing but a thin glove covering our bones. We could fuck until every reserve of light has been drained from our eyes. we can fuck till we bleed and still beg “one more?” we can run away, as far as we can until our legs smart and twitch. until we collapse. all of this is just the same; self harm. we self harm for reasons that we don’t understand and we don’t want to understand them. Eventually though, your body does become an ugly looking rubber pin cushion for all our woes to bleed us dry. Eventually we run out of room on our skin to cut or to burn or to hit, we superimpose, we infect it, we rip it back open. this feels good for sure, it definitely sends up a wave of dopamine and such. that helps. but no one wants to fuck a spooky freak. no one wants to fuck a spooky freak. No one would ever want to fuck something like me. no one would love something like me. they jump a little when they see how fucked up i look. when i cry, they gather around me like soldiers observing a wounded child. they will take off my clothes, eagerly, with jerks in their movement. and then they see it. and then their jump. and then they run away. and then they make like him, and they leave.