I was afraid of you, because of the way you touched me.

You took your hand, and you held my face, and you didn’t tremble, you didn’t shake. Your hand felt cool against my cheek… I think I was warmer than usual, because you were sitting so close, in more than just a physical sense. You touched my face, and it made me wonder, has anybody ever touched my face before? I took a shower last night, and I know I washed my face, but I couldn’t tell you what it feels like. 

And it’s like that for all of me. 

I put on my socks in the morning, but couldn’t tell you the shape of my feet. I slap a watch around my left wrist, but I somehow do it without touching bone or skin. I go for a run after work, and complain about my legs cramping and my lungs burning and my back cracking, but I’m not actually feeling anything, am I? I know what I should be feeling, so I just go through the motions, but I don’t feel a goddamn thing.

Maybe that’s why it’s so easy to cut?

Yeah, that would explain the scars, wouldn’t it? It’s not real…this body, the pain… it’s just red lines painted on used canvas. I’ve turned my skin into something I only see, because that’s the only value it has to me. I take a shower, and as I wash away the day I stare at those lines, trying to figure out which one came first while acknowledging that these won’t be the last. And it’s like that with my entire body, isn’t it? I just look for the scars I’ve carved, the bones I’ve broken, the bruises I form, day after day after day in my pathetic attempt at punishment for living a life I can only regret.

But all I really want is to reach the end, to cut a little bit deeper and find some peace…

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