I fled, as I do, as I must. It’s a different world I have to go to, to run away from myself. They say, hell is other people.<\/p>\n
It’s wrong.<\/p>\n
Hell is always, endlessly, myself. Locked inside my own head, own voice searing across old wounds, ripping and prying and tearing.<\/p>\n
I don’t cut with blades.<\/p>\n
I cut with words, and you cannot see my scars.<\/p>\n
I ran away, cutting my souls\/soles on the sharp truth: I failed. To be sorry, to be kind, to be good.<\/p>\n
To be wanted.<\/p>\n
You see, I write because I have to. The words jostle in my mind like a thousand thousand razor blades, cutting and cutting. You cannot see my scars, though I lay them out in text, fine lines of script linking wound to pain to bruise. I write because the pixels, the ink is blood, sliding down my fingertips.<\/p>\n
You say to me: it hurts too much, I can’t tonight. I hear you but I can’t hear you. Do you lock it inside, then? How do you do that? It writhes inside me, clinging with claws sharp as kittens’ teeth, pricking marks that only hurt later, when I’ve stopped running.<\/p>\n
Do you understand? I’m asking, always asking, only ever asking you to help me heal. I thought I heard you say, No, so I fled. I ran away to find the words I shape around that pain, and I didn’t know my leaving would hurt you. I never want to hurt you.<\/p>\n
I want to show you my scars, the ink that runs in my veins and spills out on the page, and say: we are alike. I can write you the path I walked before you, and maybe, just maybe, if the words shape themselves right you don’t have to hurt yourself on the same things.<\/p>\n
I ask you to help me and what comes out is always ugly and wanting, greedy and selfish. Ragged-edged words with too-cruel edges.<\/p>\n
The truth is that I say it wrong. The truth is that I love you, and I love you cannot say as you wish until after I say my wishes too. I wish you to come back. Let me try again.<\/p>\n
I write and write and write; the words spill like blood across the screen and swirl away. They will never be enough; I want to peel open my cheat and show you the parts of my soul that are yours and always will be. This is a love letter to you.<\/p>\n
I’m sorry. Please forgive me my mistake. Let me make it right. Let me try again. I give you the truth: I shape words, and the story bleeds my pain. Here are my scars, self-made. Will you help me, now, to carve out my pain?<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
I fled, as I do, as I must. It’s a different world I have to go to, to run away from myself. They say, hell is other people. It’s wrong. Hell is always, endlessly, myself. Locked inside my own head, own voice searing across old wounds, ripping and prying and tearing. I don’t cut with … Continue reading <\/span>