Canvas of my Destruction

Count them. Touch them. Go on. I dare you. See the disparities within my skin. See the places where a blade has sliced, or where an open flame has flickered against my skin for longer than what could be counted as an accident. [self harm warning]

Count them. Touch them. Go on. I dare you. Run your hand across them. See the disparities within my skin. See the places where a blade has sliced, or where an open flame has flickered against my skin for longer than what could be counted as an accident.

 

Go on. I dare you.

 

Count them all, as best you can anyway. They overlap a lot. I don’t even remember what colour my skin originally was in some parts.

 

C’mon. Do it. You know you want to. You know you’re curious. There’s a part of you, your morbid curiosity, which compels you to ponder how it’s possible for a person to deliberately and willfully harm them self.

 

It’s quiet easy you know. First time it’s a little foreign. But then again, it’s hard to remember that time. All I know was that it felt nice. I’m fairly sure it wasn’t deep, but then again, I still have the scar. I said I wouldn’t do it again, and I didn’t. For a while. I still yanked my hair, or scratched at myself with my nails. Never with an object though. Until, until, well, I don’t really remember. But when scissor’s met my skin I was in a place where I was happy. Nothing mattered anymore. I wasn’t worrying and I felt nice. Then it progressed. Scissors were no longer enough.

 

I needed something which would hurt. Something which would give me a high.

 

Something sharper.

 

Something that could go deeper.

 

Something which would scar my body easier.

 

I started to use my art carving tools. I got the idea after the teacher warned us how sharp they could be. Triggers some in all shapes and forms. And so, art tools became scattered around my room, in my bags, in my locker.

 

Feeling any repulsion yet? Feel free to press the back button at any time, I mean, after all, it’s not your life. But then again, I did dare you.

 

The carving tools worked well for a while, they penetrated the surface of my skin deep enough to scab and stay for months without disappearing. But over time, they became blunt. And they were hard to sharpen. And so, I went to the shops with only one purpose in mind. Buy sharp objects to hurt yourself with. Buy objects which will make deeper holes. Things which will make me bleed. Make me hurt. Make me calm. Make me reach a semblance of normal. Make me scar. Make me feel better.

I brought knives.

 

A couple of Stanley knives and a kitchen one. I threw the kitchen one out after a while, it wasn’t very good, plus it was too hard to hide. The Stanly knives on the other hand, they worked well. I could go deep, I could hide the blade. I could feel good with them. Stanly knives made me happy. Well, the things I could make Stanly knives do to me made me happy.

 

And then there’s the fire. Holding the flickering orange flame to my skin. All my instincts tell me to pull away, nerves begin to scream, but the longer I keep it there the better I feel. The sudden rush makes it all worth it. And each time I hold the flame longer. The flesh smolders and small, circular burns appear, getting bigger each time. They blister most of the time. P***y circles. I pop them with a pin and yellow ooze drips out. And yet, I can’t stop doing it. I can’t stop burning for the rush and popping them for the macabre curiosity.

 

It’s as easy as breathing.

 

Disgusted? I would be too, if I wasn’t to busy doing it to myself to care.

Sometimes I feel like I should stop. A kind of fleeting thought. After all, slicing up my skin daily can’t be all that good can it. No one tells me to stop though, because no one knows. I hide the scars, I hide the scabs, I hide the knives and I hide the bloody tissues and band-aids. Hiding it becomes part of the obsession. ‘Cause I can’t tell anybody. I don’t want to be just another teenage cliché, after all. I don’t want to be judged. I don’t want people looking at me with those patronizing eyes. There’s nothing wrong with me.

Is there?

 

I’m quickly becoming the canvas of my own destruction. I know which spots bleed the most and which the least; I know whether I’ll be fine with a band aid or if I’ll need something better. It’s strange the things you discover. I keep telling myself I can stop. And I could, if I wanted to. But the thing is, I don’t. I don’t want to stop. Not since that first scratch, not since the first time metal met skin.

 

It just feels good.

 

But then the scabs start to peal and pull. They start to bleed and weep. Everywhere. I can’t control it. At school, at home, at work. They open and the crimson liquid flows, dripping out soaking into my clothes. I plaster myself in band-aids, wrap towels under my clothing. But the blood still drips out, meandering its way along the curves of my body. Each day more blood ebbs, and I can’t help but feel a flicker of fear. I’m afraid, afraid of what I might do. And when moon rises into the sky and I’m sitting there, red bodily fluids pooling, I realize something. I don’t think I want this anymore. It’s gone to far, there’s too much blood. There are too many scars and they’re getting too hard to hide. But I can’t stop. No matter what I do my arm strays over the fire and knife meets skin. It’s just like breathing.

 

I look in the mirror and begin to understand that these scars aren’t going away. Ever.

And I sit here, under the artificial fluorescent lights of the bathroom and count them. Running my hands over them, feeling the raised keloids and feeling the textured scabs. If you just give me your hand, I’ll let you touch them too. Go on. I dare you.

Reviews

[Sarah A. Nelson]

The way you can sense a real cutter is by their embarrassment for their work. Kids nowadays cut themselves for fashion, and they show them off. It's disgusting and mocking of people's real afflictions. Anyhow, about the piece...

I liked it a lot. Almost reminds me of something I wrote myself, but I find it too personal to share with anyone.

[Tyler James]

For somebody who's never been involved with the cutting you describe, this piece is highly dusturbing but ultimately that was what made me want to read on. It is scary, it is beautiful, liked the way the end tied in with the beginning and gave me an intriguing insight into something i could never comprehend previous.
The only thing i could find wrong with this is the pace of the piece, it feels as though its written at a fast pace, frantic yet morbid but then suddenly stops and sometimes struggles to build it up once more, but thats just me being pedantic. Overall, good job good work and i will be back to read more. Well done.

[Violeta]

damn it, you made me remember my past. its not somenthing I am proud of, I am curios as to what was your inspiration for this? its repulsive, deep, gross, and yet beautiful. You did an exelent job at transmiting the feeling to the reader, keep it up