I think about how disgusting my body looks with all its scars and stretch marks, I think about how ever since childhood I thought about it as a shell that doesn't really belong to me, which will later fall off and I'll emerge as a beautiful person; then later I'll go to therapy and take some pills and maybe have shock therapy to rewire the power lines in my brain and become a good person, a beautiful person both inside and out. Maybe then I'll stop hating people who like me and abuse won't be the only thing that excites me sexually. Maybe the elusive feeling of wanting to play my arms with sharp objects like a violin will pass; opening holes for the sadness to go away, so to speak. Maybe I'll learn how to manage a relationship that doesn't end up with me on the floor, with a nice guy and everything, and I won't ask him to understand; I just need him to listen. He'll leave me alone when I have spikes growing out on my pores, and in return I will love him. I will love him. I will love him.
I'll stop breaking apart the minute things won't seem perfect, I will no longer feel the need to break into tears every now and then, I'll stop over-analysing and blowing things out of proportion and tapping my fingers on surfaces in a twitchy manner when I get nervous.
The heirloom every fresher received, a bracelet with a heart, has a really sharp end.
I haven't done this in a while.