Chemi
*.✧ Que Sera, Sera ✧.* | 25y/o fem
- Nov 25, 2025
- 262
Watching pretty girls get off the train, laughing about their day, heading home to boyfriends or friends or just a normal evening… and I'm sitting there choking on envy and grief because i want that to be me. I want to run away, delete everything, hit reset on the character screen. Start over as someone who can just be happy without this constant weight crushing my chest.
But I can't. No money, no energy, and even if I could vanish tomorrow, the pain would follow me like a shadow, so why even try?
So tonight the urge is screaming again.
The one that says grab the blade and carve. Not little scratches. Deep, deliberate lines that bite into flesh, watching the skin split open in clean red rivers. Going deeper each time, chasing that dizzy rush when the blood flows hot and fast, pooling under my fingers, soaking everything until the room spins and I finally feel something real. Alive. Punished. In control for once.
I press the edge slowly, and the first layer gives way so easily it almost surprises me. Then I drag it again, harder, feeling the tiny pop when it breaks through the second layer, and the warmth rushes out all at once. My whole body trembles from how good the burn feels, like lightning waking up every dead nerve. Each new line makes my heart slam against my ribs. It's not fear, far from it. Just screaming proof I'm still in here. The blood keeps coming in thick pulses, matching my pulse, and for those few seconds the crushing weight on my chest lifts and I can finally breathe. I watch it drip, drip, drip onto the floor and it's disgusting and beautiful and mine.
Every fresh cut erases the train station girls for a minute, erases the boyfriend I want to have again, erases the life I can't reach. It's the only time the emptiness shuts up and lets me feel powerful instead of pathetic.
I'm already covered in a dozen layers of scars, faded white ladders up my arms and thighs, reminders of every breakdown that pulled me back in. Months clean feel like a lie because the second the depression hits hard, I'm right there again: Forcing it deeper with a shaky breath, drawing it out slow and steady, feeling the pain flare bright and hot as everything underneath splits open and the blood comes gushing, messy and perfect. It's gruesome, yeah... thick drops hitting the floor, the metallic smell, the way it throbs afterward... but that's the point. It's proof I'm still here. Proof I deserve the hurt for being this broken, this stuck on the outside looking in.
I don't want more scars. I hate how they look, how they map out every time I lost the fight. But when nothing else cuts through the numbness, when happiness feels like a window I can't climb through, this is what's left. Destroying the body that betrayed me, one deep line at a time.
But I can't. No money, no energy, and even if I could vanish tomorrow, the pain would follow me like a shadow, so why even try?
So tonight the urge is screaming again.
The one that says grab the blade and carve. Not little scratches. Deep, deliberate lines that bite into flesh, watching the skin split open in clean red rivers. Going deeper each time, chasing that dizzy rush when the blood flows hot and fast, pooling under my fingers, soaking everything until the room spins and I finally feel something real. Alive. Punished. In control for once.
I press the edge slowly, and the first layer gives way so easily it almost surprises me. Then I drag it again, harder, feeling the tiny pop when it breaks through the second layer, and the warmth rushes out all at once. My whole body trembles from how good the burn feels, like lightning waking up every dead nerve. Each new line makes my heart slam against my ribs. It's not fear, far from it. Just screaming proof I'm still in here. The blood keeps coming in thick pulses, matching my pulse, and for those few seconds the crushing weight on my chest lifts and I can finally breathe. I watch it drip, drip, drip onto the floor and it's disgusting and beautiful and mine.
Every fresh cut erases the train station girls for a minute, erases the boyfriend I want to have again, erases the life I can't reach. It's the only time the emptiness shuts up and lets me feel powerful instead of pathetic.
I'm already covered in a dozen layers of scars, faded white ladders up my arms and thighs, reminders of every breakdown that pulled me back in. Months clean feel like a lie because the second the depression hits hard, I'm right there again: Forcing it deeper with a shaky breath, drawing it out slow and steady, feeling the pain flare bright and hot as everything underneath splits open and the blood comes gushing, messy and perfect. It's gruesome, yeah... thick drops hitting the floor, the metallic smell, the way it throbs afterward... but that's the point. It's proof I'm still here. Proof I deserve the hurt for being this broken, this stuck on the outside looking in.
I don't want more scars. I hate how they look, how they map out every time I lost the fight. But when nothing else cuts through the numbness, when happiness feels like a window I can't climb through, this is what's left. Destroying the body that betrayed me, one deep line at a time.
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