Work Text:
You ever read those things where losers sit down after a long day and watch porn and just jerk off to it; living out their fantasies carefully through a screen? Maybe not even that, perhaps even in writing, in a song, though even just looking at people, whatever it takes to get you going. Maybe you don't need to read about those losers because you are that loser.
Well, im a loser in a sort of similar way. Im currently trying to live out what I truly desire but cant fully achieve by experiencing it second-hand.
Im not allowed to hurt myself anymore.
Fuck, I want to so badly. But I can't. I can't do that to Ray or even Frank. They deserve so much better than me in their life anyways, I can't make things even worse for them. Sure, the best ting to do would be to actually ask for help, but sometimes— such as times like this— theyre both asleep or have their phones turned off of need a break from people cause ive stressed them out too fucking much so im left alone. I don't actually know what they're doing, in all honesty.
Maybe if I didn't waste all of my time this evening ranting to Ray about how much of a fucking loser I feel like and how lonely I am, then I wouldnt be in this mess.
I check my phone again.
No response.
I blast my music higher, screams and crescendos of people doing exactly what I wish to be doing currently almost begin to satisfy me.
Almost.
I wish I wasn't so broken. I think back to the paragraphs and essays ive read, the interviews ive listened to, the photographs of the damage done to so many. I kept it all stored in my brain to use later as 'inspiration'. The amount I could compare this to masturbation disgusted me. So many times I had looked at a graphic wound and began to recreate the impressions on my skin of grabbed my favourite self harm scene for me to carve onto myself while joining those I was reading about.
I disgusted me.
Maybe disgust is what keeps us alive.
I find the closest sharp object I can find: the pin Ray gave me. I remember what he told me— almost warning that it looked handmade. I didn't care, anything from him was so valuable. He is so valuable. It feels like im hurting him from how much I love being around him, how much I miss him… how much I need him. I need more people.
Or maybe a therapist.
Or maybe something to sedate me before I do something stupid.
I pull back my sleeve, undo the safety pin and press it rughr above the vein, not doing anything just yet. I leave myself time to consider. It's been over two months after all.
Fuck, im so shaky I can't even put a safety pin over my vein right, that's so fucking pathetic.
I think back to the last time I overdosed: so many people knowing I was gone for too long (people who claim to care about me) but not noticing. Am I simply that forgettable? Am I simply that replaceable.
I haven't pressed it deeper yet, no cuts have been made. What am I doing? I ask myself.
So many people may not have noticed, but Ray did. He was there for me the entire time as soon as he could, he loved me though all of it. He's done so much for me, I simply can't just throw that all away on one stupid Easter evening.
I carefully close the pin, no cuts, but im still not satisfied.
I pull my sleeve down further, revealing a canvas of scars for me to work over. I grab my red pens and do everything I wish I could do before falling into bed, red ink smudging across my skin, letting me for a second fool myself into thinking it's blood.
Now, I am finally satisfied.