[Insert Witty Title with Niche References and Misused AAVE]

Poorly written and unfortunately not witty.

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TW: Self-Harm and Addiction

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If it existed in a context beyond myself, I would somehow exist better. If my mind and body existed in someone else, they could perform it better; rather, if my body and mind never coexisted, the host would have a better time navigating it.  

Simply put: If I were not me, I would be better. 

The razor I used was from foreign lands. I still remember when I took it apart. I was trying to muffle my sobs as I frantically dug around my drawer before opening the fresh pack I got a couple of days before, yet I was too lazy to actually shave anyway. Before then, I tried unscrewing my sharpener but fumbled it, and it slid under my bed, leading to the animalistic display of hunger while ripping apart one of the razors.

Three blades jumped and scattered around my desk, fumbling to find sanctuary as they knew what I intended to do with them. I took one in my hand, no bigger than the second notch on my finger, before I started slicing into my own flesh. I didn't feel anything; I think that's why I kept going. At some point, I took the top of the razor and dug it into my skin, desperate for any sort of stimulation. When I was rewarded with none, I stood in the mirror, blood pooling before seeping down my arm in thick, slow movements, hiccuping as tears caught in my throat. I pulled down my pants and touched myself. It was fast and erratic. The most energy I've had in days; it's been days since I had a real meal. 

I was done about fifteen minutes later. Hardly aroused, disgusted, and bare. I stood staring at myself as liquids poured out of my body. Tears, blood, and the product of both. I took a towel, wiped myself down, and slept. I hardly remember the day after. Maybe because it was like any other day. 

As a person who considers herself non-violent, it's hard to understand why I cut myself. I think it's because I am violent, but exposing that level of evil is unreasonable, so I become my own punching bag. Or rather, I just enjoy knowing my suffering is real, and the physical evidence becomes a claim on its own. 

I've been clean for months. I stopped a bit before I got kicked out, deciding to stop with childish habits and to finally grow into better ones. Once I got to America, I made the choice to quit them all. No smoking, cutting, starving, or drinking--and it worked. For the most part, at least. 

Being alone felt peaceful. I could somehow hear myself and understand. In turn, I started isolating myself. Somehow, tranquility doesn't have space for performance. Which is strange; my whole existance it to perform, to appear somehow different, yet digestible for everyone. I want to starve so everyone gets to feed on my bones, sucking out the marrow and carving the remains into necklaces and hairpins. 

That abruptly came to an end once I found that foreign razor again. I packed it in my suitcase, within my jewelry box. Parts were rusted, and I still used it because the risk of infection only made the feeling more real. I almost forgot how addictive it was. I sat in the bathroom, closed the lid of the toilet, and lifted my shirt sleeve. I didn't hesitate. I was supposed to be asleep. I didn't feel anything. I saw the blood starting to spill, and I got excited. I almost continued. 

I haven't had that kind of rush since we snuck out of the house. I didn't want to overdo it just yet. I just started back up. And I don't have much space to work with until it gets cooler outside. Three beautiful lines appeared on my shoulder. 

Writing this now, I'm ashamed, or rather, embarrassed. I haven't slept, and I feel like a child again. I need a cigarette.