Blindfolded yet still seeing.

My own Tabula Rasa.

Scar me Beautiful. Scar me Flawless.

† I wished upon a star that I would get ‘better’ †

Stars keep false promises.

I have not cut myself since… October. Even then it was in a fit of drunken jealousy. I used to believe, with every fibre of my scarred soul, that if I stopped slicing my flesh apart, I would be healed.

Alas, I am a fucking idiot for believing it would be so… simple.

I attend my DBT group, take my meds, see my therapist. I threw out my blades, have a wonderful relationship, a great job that keeps me well clothed, fed and accessorised and then allows me to purchase books to sate my addiction.

But I am still horrible depressed. I still long to rip the flesh out of my arms, to dig through muscle, to find bone. To crawl pathetically to A and E and be stitched or stapled back to humanity.

So, instead, I fantasise. I draw sometimes, kiss my boyfriend, take my Lorazepam to sleep, wear my pretty clothes and fuck.

I am not suicidal anymore though. For which I am thankful.

I just wish I were happy.

I fucking deserve it.