Smile On His Lips and Cuts On His Hips (Jalex)

Nine - Last Resorts

And then my heart was speeding up and my breathing was breaking and my iPod was causing no relief as it thumped onto my bed while my body hit the floor. I collapsed with my head in my hands, tear soaked eyelashes splattering my cheeks and salt drenched fingers abusing my hair.

"Just breathe," I commanded myself, trying to think of those tactics you're taught in third grade to calm down. In... out... in... out...

But I didn't help and I was gasping hard and all I really wanted was someone to just give me a hug, assure me that I was worth something, and tell me that everything would be alright. But I had nobody, and I was so sad and lonely and tired and overwhelmed and confused, because I had no idea what was happening, or why, and I didn't know what to do.

So my poison mind flipped to the cuts on my arm, and how they'd just made everything better.

My door slammed upon and I squinted around the hall, taking in that nobody was there to see me. I didn't know where the fuck my family was and hadn't really talked to them all day anyways, because they didn't care what was going on with me, nobody cared, and I couldn't stop thinking like that.

A minute that I didn't even remember later, my hands were splayed out over the granite counters of our bathroom, bloodshot eyes glaring in the mirror. My hair was literally sticking up in every direction that I could possibly imagine, normally perfectly styled over my forehead fringe shoved back into the air, skin looking like some amateur artist had spilled red watercolor in random splotches over it, watery eyes circled in pink. I looked like shit, and I felt like shit, and my chest was heaving, and my head was beating harder than my heart, and my eyes were burning as I hunched in that locked room.

This is why I don't have anybody. I'm alone and I'm ugly and that's never going to change.

"Fucking Christ, stop it!" I cried, stumbling back into the towel rack behind me, wincing as the metal scraped my back. I grasped at the wall to steady myself, vision swimming and legs shaking as I stumbled across the room.

Falling onto the toilet, I wrenched open the drawer nearest to me, hands fumbling past packs of toothbrushes and band aids in an unorganized disarray, eventually managing to curl around a pack of razorblades.

And then my sweats were around my knees and my boxers were half off and there were tears dripping onto my exposed hip. It was sick, yet I'd thought about it. Where I could hurt myself, where nobody would ever have to know. What better place than somewhere always covered by the most basic piece of clothing?

I was looking at the metal of metal glinting between my fingers, curious about just how sharp razors were. I'd cut myself shaving more times than I could even come close to keeping track of anymore. Who knew, though?

So I slid the razor I'd ripped out of its pack across my thumb, grimacing at the pain but smirking at the blood. It took me a second to realize that razor cuts bleed a fucking lot, and then there was a blood stained piece of toilet paper on the counter next to me along with a band aid wrapper, maimed finger disabling my hand. In conclusion, really fucking sharp.

My thumb stung, and it felt so fucking good, but I was still so fucking bad and nothing was helping. I was crying, gulping air like a fish out of water, my mind was insulting itself, thoughts killing it and I was getting so desperate to calm down that I was turning to last resorts.

I yanked my boxers down, inhaling sharply as I pressed the blade against my protruding right hip bone. A thought fleeted through my head of, no, don't do it, this is wrong.

But I didn't care. It would help me. I would feel better. I didn't think it was wrong, and who else would care?

So I wiped my eyes to clear the obstruction, rubbing water off my face, stubble scratching against my skin. And I pushed down the razor, slicing straight across my hipbone, just low enough to be under the band of my boxers.