I hold the knife at my wrist, bracing myself. I press the blade into the soft, white flesh, a soft moan escaping my lips. The crimson liquid flows from the cut, running down my arm and dripping slowly onto the tiled floor. I press the knife harder still into my arm, the flow of blood increasing. I sigh in relief as I feel all the hatred and pain slipping away. I pull the knife off my arm and chuck it into the bathroom sink. I slide down the wall and wrap a towel around my bleeding wrist. I wipe the blood off the floor with my sleeve. I get up and wash off the knife, and tuck it into my jeans. I walk silently back to my bedroom and slip under the covers on my bed. I pull the knife back out and I lean over the side of my bed. I put the blade under a loose floorboard and pull myself back into the bed. I drift off to sleep, having a clear mind for the first time in ages.
I write and write and write. I write my heart out onto those pages. As long as my pen keeps flowing ink, I’ll keep writing. Everything that happens at school goes into the pages of my diary. Keeping a diary at 16 is a bit young, but that’s the only way I keep from exploding. No one knows the being of my mind, what’s under my skin. Being popular doesn’t get you everything. In fact, being popular excludes you from anything close to normalcy.
Hey guys! Thanks for reading thus far! Just saying, if you guys want to read more, I would appreciate it if you'd tell me, as I don't want to be writing and no one's reading it!
Tonnes of love and appreciation,