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Literature Text
((This isn't a memory. It's just something really, really random. I really didn't stop and think about this at all. I just kept typing and this is what it turned out to be.))
"How does it feel?"
"How does what feel?"
"You know...dragging that blade across your skin. Does it make you feel alive; like you can breathe again? How many lines does it take until finally you're able to feel again? I remember that night it took 77...you could feel the first 30, but after that you couldn't feel a damn thing. You wanted to be scared, but it felt so fucking good. You knew that if you couldn't hurt yourself, no one else could. Tell me, does it bother you?"
"Does what bother me?"
"The scars. The stares. The questions. I mean, do they ever bring you down? Oh that's right. No one ever sees them. Tucked away under those long sleeves of yours. Doesn't it get hot? Doesn't anyone ever question that? Of course they do. It's fucking 90 degrees outside and you're in a button-up, long sleeved Abercrombie shirt, which, by the way, looks nice on you right now. But...out of all this, you know what bothers you the most?"
"What?"
"That all of this is right. Everything I've just said is exactly how you feel. Exactly what you think, like I was your journal-come-to-life. All of this is right, and it bothers you. It bothers you that someone could know all of this just by watching you; studying your every word without you ever speaking. It's sad isn't it? Keeping all of this a secret when there's all these people here for you. What? You have nobody? No, no dear. That's just what you think. You keep people out; build sort of a wall around yourself so that nobody else can see what goes on behind those cold, caculating eyes. You don't want somebody to trust, you just want to be able to let yourself trust someone. I'm sorry, but no amount of self-help books nor psychiatry appointments will help you with that Sweetie...but what do I know? I'm just that voice in the back of your head; the one that, everytime you eye that blade, whispers 'No amount of blood you shed will ever fix what's in your mind'."
"How does it feel?"
"How does what feel?"
"You know...dragging that blade across your skin. Does it make you feel alive; like you can breathe again? How many lines does it take until finally you're able to feel again? I remember that night it took 77...you could feel the first 30, but after that you couldn't feel a damn thing. You wanted to be scared, but it felt so fucking good. You knew that if you couldn't hurt yourself, no one else could. Tell me, does it bother you?"
"Does what bother me?"
"The scars. The stares. The questions. I mean, do they ever bring you down? Oh that's right. No one ever sees them. Tucked away under those long sleeves of yours. Doesn't it get hot? Doesn't anyone ever question that? Of course they do. It's fucking 90 degrees outside and you're in a button-up, long sleeved Abercrombie shirt, which, by the way, looks nice on you right now. But...out of all this, you know what bothers you the most?"
"What?"
"That all of this is right. Everything I've just said is exactly how you feel. Exactly what you think, like I was your journal-come-to-life. All of this is right, and it bothers you. It bothers you that someone could know all of this just by watching you; studying your every word without you ever speaking. It's sad isn't it? Keeping all of this a secret when there's all these people here for you. What? You have nobody? No, no dear. That's just what you think. You keep people out; build sort of a wall around yourself so that nobody else can see what goes on behind those cold, caculating eyes. You don't want somebody to trust, you just want to be able to let yourself trust someone. I'm sorry, but no amount of self-help books nor psychiatry appointments will help you with that Sweetie...but what do I know? I'm just that voice in the back of your head; the one that, everytime you eye that blade, whispers 'No amount of blood you shed will ever fix what's in your mind'."
Damn...this came out of nowhere. I'm serious. It only took me ten minutes to write this. It just poured from my fingertips.
I appreciate criticism, but this really was very random. I was just writing in my Xanga (I know, lame. Sometimes I like typing my thoughts better than writing them.)
Beginning of entry:
"Something doesn't feel right.
Damnit, I'm in one of those "moods" again...I don't...like feeling this. It's that...that feeling like when you realize something horrible's coming your way but you can't stop it...but you can't accept it.
It's also the feeling I get when I listen to How Long Is the Night by Thursday...the song mentioned in an 'entry' before this one. Memories, memories..."
I appreciate criticism, but this really was very random. I was just writing in my Xanga (I know, lame. Sometimes I like typing my thoughts better than writing them.)
Beginning of entry:
"Something doesn't feel right.
Damnit, I'm in one of those "moods" again...I don't...like feeling this. It's that...that feeling like when you realize something horrible's coming your way but you can't stop it...but you can't accept it.
It's also the feeling I get when I listen to How Long Is the Night by Thursday...the song mentioned in an 'entry' before this one. Memories, memories..."
© 2006 - 2024 InconsistentTrials
Comments11
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I love this, it's such a calm, biting logic. So gentle, I wish my voices got this calm, usually it ends up in swearing not really pretty.
That's so beautiful anyways. The insistence, so realistic.
That's so beautiful anyways. The insistence, so realistic.