Pieces Of Me [an online journal of sorts]

Entry 1 0 5: edges

We tend to admire her, don't we? That enigma of a girl we read about in books, who hurtles through life with violent heartbeats and volatile breaths. She's a meteorite born from a crash, with missing fingers, burnt skin and fissures in places only her eyes know how to pick apart. She tells you with a grin she's not living unless she's dying and flirts with Chaos like an old lover. Catastrophes happen when you pair apathy with recklessness. 

She has a taste for words with sharp edges and she knows exactly when to dig them into your spine. She makes it look easy too, like she can't see red blooming under soft cotton shirts, can't feel it sliding down her own temple. Hurt, hurt, hurt is all she seems to do, intentional and calculated, more than second nature, a necessity like breathing. She tells you she was born with thorns in her mouth and on her fingertips and you believe her because she pricks you right where it hurts the most. It's cruelty like none other, a smile sweet enough to give you a stomach ache. It looks like it stings as it cuts across her cheeks, and that's when you realize she's as much a victim as she is a survivor. She thrives when she's burning and she thrives when she burns and it's ugly, but you are awed by the flames. You are drawn and repulsed, fascinated and appalled. How could someone with such hard edges be so brittle?

Sometimes I think I am the girl you read about--minus the romanticism. Or maybe I used to be, but I mostly keep that part of me smothered. I can feel her sometimes, resisting, screaming at me, but now I just push the pillow down with an iron will and keep still till she quiets again. Because there's nothing admirable about wounding just because you can and nothing lovely about an overcrowded brain and an empty heart, when desperation is coiled so tightly around your throat, you'd reach out with curled fists and white knuckles for any sense of control in a world that's made you so helpless. You've learned not to care about the bruises you leave as long as you get that taste of power you crave so much, even if it means sleeping with bloodied hands.

Maybe especially then.

Hopefully, I've moved past that. Hopefully, I've stopped wanting to cut people with my edges whenever I feel like I might break. One can hope.