The worst part about being a cutter isn't the action. That's probably the best part.
It's hunting down your favorite razor blade.
Digging through shelves and boxes.
Like a heroin addict, looking for one more fix that you just know is in the room.
You can feel it. Taste it. Smell it.
But until its in your hand, nothing else matters.
Once you've decided you're going to cut, it's all there is.

I looked in the same boxes and shelves three times over. I couldn't stop. I was chasing the high of being low. Twenty minutes of me searching before pulling a handful of junk from a drawer and seeing the tiny box the razors come in, in my hand. It was euphoric, to say the least.

Then I get to drag it across the flesh of my arm and all is good. I wanted to go deep. I split the skin and saw the pink. It scares me how good it feels. I probably shouldn't do this. It's going to get worse. I never cut that often. I didn't want people to see the marks. But I realized I could just cover them with band aids. I'll probably be cutting a lot more now.


I have this trick—anything you can do to me, I do to myself already. And I hit harder than you ever could