I cut myself because you wouldn't let me cry.
I cried because you wouldn't let me speak.
I spoke because you wouldn't let me shine.
I shone because I thought you loved me...

Thank you.

It used to be knee length, but then I discovered that when I get angry I like to cut things.

I'm not allowed to have scissors any more.

It's still pretty lengthy, but I've been threatening to shave half of it for the past week and nobody seems to believe me...

I do it all myself though because I scream when I'm touched and that scares people.

I am my heart’s undertaker. Daily I go and retrieve its tattered remains, place them delicately into its little coffin, and bury it in the depths of my memory, only to have to do it all again tomorrow.

I love to write and to get to know the people who are listening.

Loving the wrong person is self-harm

That's when I wanted to cut. I cut to quiet the cacophony. I cut to end this abstracted agony, to reel my selves back to one present and physical whole, whose blood was the proof of her tangibility.