Copyright, Anonymous
Images: www.freeimages.co.uk

Daisies, broadway music floating through my body, and sunshine radiating its glory all over my room. Sounds like a good day, eh? Not really.

The sad thing is, I dont even remember what happened that day. I was around 13 years old, equipped with a few good CD’s and a pink razor, with white daisies glittered all over it. My mother bought them at CVS, she thought they would be a nice change from the standard grey ones that used to sit aimlessly in the closet.

Anyways, let me get back to where I think I began. My bed was deeper that day somehow, my whole body seemed to be engulfed into it and sit there like stone. The Forrest Gump theme song was listlessly playing in the backround, and my flowered daisy seemed to be calling my name. Sitting there all alone. Hey, I shouldn’t be selfish, my razor needed company too, right? No one should be alone. I was doing it for the razor.

Numbminded, I reached over for the piece of plastic. My trance was momentarily interupted by the moisture that dripped from my eyes and fell helplessly onto my knees. With my fist in a tight pulse, I shook and stared at my begging veins. I deserved it, the razor would love it. If I did this then everything else would be okay, it would just fall into place.

The uplifting part of the song came. My right hand was lifted. It began slicing horizontally like a pyscho with a machine gun, killing every civilian in its path without a second thought. I didn’t stop. Not until my blood started to drip on the carpet, that is.

My left forearm was suffocated with thick blood. It was pulsing, moving, keeping me company and bringing a clever grin to my face. Normal? Yes! Who defined normal anyways?

Better bandage myself up; better run into the bathroom and get some gauze strips and medical tape. Don’t worry me, me will take care of you. It’s okay me, me is here now. Me will make everything okay, so close your eyes, and relax, you’re not alone anymore.

That same pattern has been going on for about five years now. Happy to say, yes, I do change razors, and yes, my mind is in much better place. I get sick of hiding scars and wearing long sleeve shirts, even when it’s so hot that I can feel the sweat between my thighs. I was sick of being a freak, of cutting, of being me. So I have cut it down a lot, but unfortunately, every now and again I get hit with one of those ironic ‘sunshine’ days. Hey, its okay, we all do sometimes. Right?