Old Habits Die Hard

I locked myself in the bathroom after everyone went to bed last night and took apart one of my razors. I had to pry it open with tweezers; but the casing was cheap, disposable, so it was fairly easy. I sat on the floor with the blade between my fingers for at least an hour, staring at my old scars, the newest of which was made over 8 months ago. And finally, with one swift, downward flick of my wrist I opened the oldest and slightest of them. My blood is so watery, and such a bright, translucent red that it almost doesn't seem real. I watched the thin line trail down my forearm and pool in a thick teardrop shape at the hollow of my inner elbow, then turned my attention to a bare, fleshy spot a few inches down. I pressed the blade against my arm and pulled slower this time; edging it deeper into my skin as I pulled. I never feel the initial cut; my flesh parts easily, and a strange sort of calm washes over me. I sit and savor the sting; air rushes into the wound, and I feel my skin adjust to the exposure. Oh, I am quite the clich�.

I am not sure how much longer I can do this. I cannot escape the weight I carry around inside of me, the sadness that bends my back and slows my limbs; the loneliness that insinuates itself into my every waking thought; the animosity that makes my head hang heavy. Maybe that is why I so rarely have an appetite for food anymore - I am full with resentment; I live on a steady diet of depression.