tw - descriptions of intrusive thoughts/self harm/depression

-

I wonder when I'll stop looking at everything like it's a weapon to be used against me.

When a knife will just be something to smear peanut butter across a piece of toast. When the strings of my hoodie will just hang there, and the razor will just be used for shaving my legs.

Sometimes it feels like it will go on forever. That the urge to throw myself off the stairs will always be sitting there, waiting until the right moment to whisper in my ears and cause my grip to ease ever so slightly.

Perhaps it will be. Perhaps I am cursed.

Curses are not unusual I believe. I think that everyone is cursed with something when they were born - so no ones life is ever perfect. Perhaps this is mine.

And perhaps I am cursed to wear the scars that lay upon my forearm until I wither and die, and then the scars will be branded on my bones. Purple against red, why must God hate me so.

I stare at my reflection in the mirror. A corpse stares back.

It's hair is stringy and tangled, puffy bags sit beneath its eyes. However, the most noticeable thing is the way that it's neck and wrists are slit open - the blood ever flowing, staining its clothes and skin.

I stare at it until my eyes dry, wondering if the thumping in my chest is fear about becoming the corpse, or fear that I will not. But the reflection does not fade, and I have to check myself multiple times to make sure that I am breathing and that my clothes are not yet stained with bright red blood.

I place my hand against the cool glass, resisting the urge to turn it into a fist and punch through the mirror - trying to get to the reflection. The corpse does not move.

And I stand there, my hand against the mirror, staring at my future.