take back the time.

everything is worng,

as i look at my life

this is not where i planned to be.

they used to tell me,

of all that was good,

with beauty and grace.

i'd go far they used to say,

but i am stuck,

right here

right now.

i hold the pretty pink razor in hand. prying it apart with my fingers, and then the tweezers. my mind races, its been so long since i've done this, so long since i've held the razor in my hand. its never been this easy, i remember the firt time i pried one apart. it took hours, and made me so frustrated, the longer it took, and the more i needed to cut. visions of the first time flash through my head. but it came apart so easyly, and there lay 2 shiny silver blades. why is it there are two razors, i wonder, and think why aren't there more, and why not only one? i pick the razor up, and the questions buzz in my mind. "Why are you doing this again?" i tell myself that its the pain that i can't stand. "Two nights in a row, you've thought of those razors, you made it through last night." I know, but its so painful, and it hurts so bad, i need to. i want to. i look at myself in the mirror, and laugh. what a pathetic reflection i say to myself, but i notice that my eyes have a sparkle in them that i hadn't noticed before. something that said i could make it, that i was doing ok. i walk to my bedroom, and take out my journal, recording the last time i cut. i peer at the date, and read the entry. why i think to myself. i hold the razors in my hand, staring at them, and thinking why they were in the bathroom. it had been nearly a year since my mom had kept more than one in there. hiding the packages from me, and never keeping more than one, so if it went missing, well it was more obvious. but there were so many, 5 or 6 looming aroung the bathroom. a brand new package in the cupboard. i take it she thinks i've beat this and would no longer need the razors, or be so crazy as to take them. or maybe after my stash of them that i wouldn't need the ones in the bathroom. i count the stars, 78 of them in tow, just hours to go and i could have 79, but who cares. who am i doing this for anyway? i wonder outloud. my voice startles me. 78 stars is nothing. 78 is so many, but so few. and what a stupid idea anyway, counting the days that i had been without my razor as stars. i roll up my long sleeve shirt, and peer at my arm. so ugly. yet its so beautiful too. i fear myself. i had never seen them as anything but ugly. but they are so beautiful, as i remember a few of the scars. they should be beautiful. this is a sick thing you do. its sick, you are sick. i grab the razor, in a fit of dispair now. i want another ugly scar upon my body to show how sick i am. i pick up the razor in hand, and bring it to my skin. i can feel the cold metal on my arm. my heart skips a beat. 78 stars i scream to myself. 78 days that its been. 78. make it 79. you want to hit 80.

i throw the razor from my hand to the floor. i drop to the floor with it and cry. i cry because i released the razor, because i didn't have the guts. and because it hurt so bad that i was sitting there with a razor in my hand, ready to slice myself again. i cry because it hurts so bad. i cry so hard i can't breath. i lay there on that floor, curled in a ball now, for it hurts to even breath. such a gut wrenching pain in me. so deep. physical pain. i sit up slowly. but with every move it hurts worse. i say it has to stop. i have to know now if the razor will make it go away. i target not my wrist, not my arm. i so badly wish to wear short sleeves, with out fresh cuts. and 78 days free, i might as well not put one there. i pull down my pants. the scars are so ugly, thick and red. so ugly. but i must know. i must know why i once did this. i had forgotten the stinging kiss. i had forgotten. i must remember now. its been so long. its been so long. i had forgotten.

i pick the razor up, planning its mark. i make a tiny mark, and the pain feels refreshing. thin, and shallow marks, scraths really. but the feelings i remember. the relief i feel. tears stream down my face. i have never cried and cut at the same time. the blood wells up in the cuts, now thicker and deeper. i never felt the pain of the cuts before. but i sorta felt a sting, slight sting in my body. the first and the second, and after that it was nothing. the pain leaves my body. emotional and physical. relieved. i wipe the tears and the blood, and smile. i am sick i say to myself. bleeding to relieve the pain. so very sick. and to smile afterwards. this battle that started so many years ago. i've not yet beat it. 78 stars fallen and shattered on the floor. i let the blood dry, and stop. put the razors away. i pull up my pants, being careful to overpass the fresh cuts. i turn the light off, and go to my bedroom, pick up a book and lose myself in the story.

i wonder why the story didn't come first.