this was written for a contest commemorating Self-Harm Awareness Day. it placed first in the contest and one a Daily Literature Deviation award on deviantART, but i figure you can never stop improving and decided to post it here as well to get some feedback from the YWS community as well as the dA one (:
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You know that saying, the one about the first cut being the deepest? It's not true.
Hate to break it to those of you who want pain and blood loss and death swiftly, but it simply isn't. If anything, it's the shallowest. The first is the tentative one. The 'how-far-can-I-push-myself?' one. The 'will-this-hurt?' one. It's the anticipation; the nervousness a virgin feels with her first lover, the skeptics pondering whether what they really think is politically correct enough to be made public. It's the judge. It's a guess. A step into the unknown. That's the first cut.
It's after that you ought to watch out though, the fury and frenzy of cold steel on skin, the destruction of skin, the liberation of blood cells. You thought that they must have been a bit claustrophobic in there anyway. After the first cut, it's simple joy. I'm not going to lie, tell you ominous preemptions about the pain, and the scars and such. You don't think about that in the process, I know. In the short term, it's great. It's release. It's control. It's the blood. It's whatever it is for you. It's the long term that's the worrying thing.
It's the glancing over your shoulder, wondering if anyone can see them. It's not wanting to stretch too far in case your sleeve pulls up to far to reveal crimson crossroads. It's enjoying yourself, then falling over and reopening them. It's wondering why you did it. It's inviting your friends over. It's them finding the bloody tissue you used to muffle your body's screams the night before. It's the awkwardness.
And then you're alone. Then it's the abyss of midnight, and you are alone with yourself, and that's always the worst part of it. You're screaming, and writhing, and craving the light and nobody else seems to notice. You curl up into yourself to try and escape the reality of it all, but that only seems to make you feel worse. And then you do it again, and again, and again until it's every night, and your arms are ravaged. At the time, you'll either think they're pretty or just cover them up. There'll be one night when you're slipping below slick sheets, in the company of another; someone you think is miles too good for you, when they'll happen across the scars. You'll be ashamed. It'll almost certainly be the end of any love-making you had planned. They'll want to talk it through.
You won't.
It's the bottom of the barrel. It's the hating it and it's the wanting it nonetheless. It's doing it anyway, though it causes you more misery than you started off with. It's addiction.
It's linoleum. It's the jagged smell of ethanol. It's bleach white. It's the steady metronome of a heart monitor somewhere in the distance. It's explaining, though you don't want to. They don't understand. It's talking it through. It's hating every second, but feeling incomprehensibly better for it anyway. It's a steady decline. It's wanting to stop. It's hating yourself every time you succumb to its sweet seduction. It doesn't have the same thrill anymore. It's only blood, gently oozing through layers of skin, peeled back. It used to be a release of energy, and massive explosion of emotions and energy; a huge roiling turmoil of a monster that you loved. Now all you feel is regret.
It's finding someone. It's noticing the gentle incline of their neck, and the way they bat their eyes and pretend to look interested. It's noticing the tiny lines that indicate that this person smiles. A lot. It's noticing the idiosyncratic freckle in their eye. It's meeting their family. It's noticing their eyes rolling over your scars. It's wishing you hadn't made them in the first place.
It's reflection. It's wondering why on earth you did it, and admonishing yourself for it. It's the sluggish tear that cascades over your skin. It's remembering how it felt. It's thinking 'if only I had said something earlier'. It's regret. It's casting your eyes over them once more and being filled with self-hatred.
It's self-harm. The name says it all.
