The Support Group ✖ BajanCanadian [COMPLETED]

[Intro]

I remember the first time I cut deep enough.

 Tears stained my cheeks, vivid as I entered my home – well, what was once my home. Every time I looked at it all I saw was darkness, and a chill snaked down my spine when I opened the door.

This place was no longer home.

All I heard as my feet pounded against the stairs were faded echoes of all the sorrow I wept into my pillow. This place was foreign.   

My sense of smell refused to pick up any scent other than rubbing alcohol, the kind I used to clean the blade of my harm, and the only thing I tasted was my own thick blood. I was so torn down inside that no one on the outside computed.

I made it to the bathroom, which was a shock. I figured the temptation would have become of me by then.

When I looked at myself in the mirror, I cringed. I didn't like what I saw.

Sometimes, when a girl looks in a mirror, stares herself dead in the eye, and smiles the tiniest smile one could imagine, there's hope. There's a treasure chest beneath the dirt, you just have to keep digging.

But there are other times when a girl looks in a mirror, staring at herself relentlessly, forcing a distorted smile, when there is no hope. There is a treasure chest, but your lungs began to burn, your knees buckled, and your elbows gave out. Your soul did too. Your commitment did. You blinked, and all the dirt fell back into place – particle by particle.

All of your hard work for naught?

I'll spare you my downfall, the day I sold my soul to depression.

The day I cut too deep was also the day I fell in love.

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look what's back, bitches

- piper