I sit and I stare at the cut on my leg.
I just couldn’t help it. I was in the bathroom, shaving my legs, and I thought ‘what the heck?’ and pushed a bit harder into my skin. The effect was a bit bigger then I had assumed it would be, but that only made me feel even better.
I watched as the blood dripped down my leg. I did not feel any pain at all. There was something there; coming from the red spot on my leg, but it doesn’t hurt. It feels…good. I like it.
I make sure to keep all the cuts above my thighs, so that they are covered by various articles of clothing. So when I bandage the cut to prevent leakage for my mom to see, it might as well not be there. After I slip into the tank top and shorts that I sleep in, I look just like any other normal teenager.
But every time I change clothes, and happen to glance at myself in the mirror, I see just how different I am. I can’t bear to look at myself. I know that I am not ugly, but I still feel that way. I know that I weigh the same as about everyone else here, but I still feel like I need to hide a bulge in my stomach that is not there. And don’t even get me started about those two things on my chest. Too big in this, too flat in that. Never perfect.
I pull the flat iron through my hair. It’s so thick and curly, and always frizzes. After a quick forty-five minute session of steam rising from the iron, it falls flat. I have to admit, I do like the way it comes out. I just wish it was like that in the first place. And that it would stay put, and not fall back into its wavy pattern when it gets wet.
I am never perfect. I either look like I did my make-up in the dark, or I am a total s***. I’m not sure which I like better. Neither. I just want to find a balance in-between the two. But no matter how hard I try, I cannot.
I have a cut on my leg. And one on my stomach, and one on the bottom of my foot. They are my reminders. They remind me that I am fat and ugly, and that I must be punished. So here is my punishment, brought to me by myself. I must cut.