She slides the razor across her fair fair flesh,
the blood begins, in pearls at first, and then into tears,
she weeps for herself, and for her demons,
and for the world in which she is forced to live.
But I slice into my soul.
That same razor, it cuts the essence of my being.
I know who I am while I'm doing it, and I punish myself.
The blood does not flow from my wrist or my arms,
but it sets inside me, boiling.
For it is in those moments, when my soul is cut open,
the hate appears in the mirror.
I hate myself for who I am, for what I do to you, and what I do to me.
I hate myself for letting it go this far.
And though all I want to do is scream out in frustration,
throw something into the face of the girl looking out of the mirror
and shatter her into oblivion.
I can't. I face it. I say it makes me stronger.
Tearing myself down, ripping myself apart inside,
the part of me that no one knows, the part that no one can see.
But it doesn't.
I weep while searching for a place to hide from myself when it is said and done.
Because I know what I have really done to myself, and it frightens me.
She slides the razor across her fair fair flesh, the blood begins.
I watch in envy, I watch in apathy.
I watch her, and I see me.
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Submission Name: a moment with a razor
