Musings

If I am addicted to pity, and pain, and care.

If the only way I know I feel loved is for someone to bend over backwards for me, doing everything I ask without asking outright.

Am I crazy? I might be.

Crazy enough to deem myself self-righteous when no one is looking.

Crazy enough to dive deep into a hole of depression if it means I can make you guilty.

Crazy enough to protect myself from all blame, so that every fault is found with anyone but me.

Was I always like this? Or was I made this way? Did I create this ugly caricature of myself after I was broken, using jagged pieces to re-create myself, having forgotten what I looked like when I was actually whole?

And if I was always like this and I am only just now realizing it, doesn’t that make me even worse?

There’s something about the pain.

I hate it, but I can’t seem to stop.

I caress my wrist with the tip of a knife like a kiss I always knew would steal something from me.

As I search for all the reasons not to, my hands move of their own accord.

“She is more beautiful.”

Scratch.

“He thinks about her from time to time.”

Scratch.

“He misses her.”

Scratch.

“She had everything he wanted. She gave him everything he wanted.”

Scratch, scratch.

“He liked how it felt to hold her in all the right places.”

Scratch.

“He missed how good it felt to come inside of her.”

Scratch, scratch, scratch.

“He doesn’t feel that with me.”

Scratch, scratch.

“Am I good enough?”

Scratch.

“Does he love her still?”

Scratch.

I look down. The knife has uncovered scars I’ve long forgotten. I pick up a new tool - smaller this time, maybe less painful - and continue.

Scratch.