This is a story.

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This is a story of a girl and a safety pin. She sits in bed, pulls it from safekeeping. Dragging it across her left wrist (always her left), she watches in sheer curiosity as the flesh slowly tears and opens. She curls up, cries until her eyes are purple, cursing herself because she’s not a real cutter. She knows that. She won’t cut under the skin. She’s too scared. She just wants a reason to feel like there’s something wrong with her. And maybe that’s what’s wrong.

She sobs until she feels inside out.