Guns Under Their Petticoats

My love x

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15. ⤗ quince

I always wondered what went through people's minds to make them feel like hurting themselves was the only option, like taking a leap closer to death would bring a sense of happiness but I think I've felt enough of pain to justify the rush of slicing your own skin into a thousand pieces. It's the euphoria that fills your head. No longer numb or out of control; this is feeling something. I can't remember what it's like to not feel hungry, to not have a dull ache in the depths of your body craving food that no longer fills it's absence. I like it. I don't know why I like the idea of self destruction. I'm fucked up. That's all I ever say because how do you explain to someone that you like the sharp pain of a paintbrush trailing your thighs, the burning sensation of blood dropping away from your skin with a stroke of water, the longing for food. You don't. People don;t understand what it's like to have thoughts so bad you feel it's the only option. It's the only way to be in control and there's something calming about the fact you are strong enough to do both good and bad. Sometimes it's not even the thoughts. Sometimes I just miss being in control. I know I shouldn't, but I'm really just fucked up.

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