Which Side Are You On







That is the thing about depression.
Once you give in, it can suck you right back whenever it pleases.

I stared at my healed wrists and carefully studied untouched parts of my skin.
Unscarred, perfect spots.
And then I went at it.
Over. And over.
Slowly, so it's not too gory. Just the right amount of pressure, just the right amount of cut.

I do it to feel.
I do it to not feel.

Each time the blade hits, a part of me dies. A part of me numbs.
And that is what I want most. I want to not feel. I want to not care. I want to not love.
I want nothing. I don't want any of this.









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