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"Comfort"

When I look at you, I look through you. For a thousand meters I can stare away. Flashes come to me over and over, archs like lightening in my brain. All I can do is reach for the knife again and pray that this is the last time I have to do it. Each cut gets deeper, spills more blood as each time gets harder to stop from happening.

I stare off into space so often it unnerves me. I don't see anything there. I don't feel. I don't do anything. I just am. Zoning. Opening myself to the Cosmos, letting all the pain and frustration inside me float away. Unfortunately, it floats away along with my hope, my love, my needs. I don't need anything anymore. Anything except that knife.

Silver tipped, stainless steel - thin and sharp, enough to make a fine little line along the vein. Enough blood spilled to make my hand shake. It's not the quality of the fluid, but the quantity. The number of marks on my skin are too many to number anymore. All I need is my knife. Nothing protects me, nothing loves me, nothing feeds me like my knife.

Babies know better than to play with knives, but not me. I know only my need. I know only what I want. I only know how to be selfish, self-centered, and self-absorbed. I avoid others because I don't care anymore. All I care about is getting rid of the pain. I can control the pain if I make it. I can make the pain go away if I start it. No one else can. Talking to someone can't help me. It ony hurts other people.

"I didn't want to hurt you baby, I didn't want to hurt you. I didn't want to hurt you baby but you're pretty when you cry."

I'm tired of causing others pain and grief on my account. Enough is enough. No one needs to know what's going on. No one needs to know anything about what's going on with me. Maybe they'll find this after I die. Maybe they'll know then that I loved them too much to let them see me like this. Maybe then they'll understand. Maybe not.

I want to be with them so badly. I want to be held, and told that it'll be okay and we'll work through it togther. But all I ever hear afterwards is how I just want attention and how much trouble I am and how weak I must be. No! I am not weak! Not to anyone else but myself am I weak! I am the only one who will see my weakness. I am the only one who will taste my pain. After I'm gone - then they might see. They might be able to see and be glad for all the pain I'm protecting them from. It's all for love, you see. It's all for love of those I wish to never hurt. To see me like this would make them hurt. I cannot make them hurt.

"Bad Dobby! Bad House Elf!"

So we come to an end. One more strip of skin, hanging off my body, one more bone exposed. How long can I hide it? How long until I shut down? I wonder. No I don't. I have it set. I'll shut down

now.