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and when do I ever not feel guilty, so I cut myself up all the time, sometimes I don't even notice that I'm doing it.

Notice...

I try not to notice how much I'm shaking from the fear, the fear that maybe he'll try to kill me again, he tried once, you know, but it was a long time ago. I still shake, I can see it on my arm because I usually cut straight lines and the last two look like lightning bolts or something jagged of that sort and I wonder how I can just calm myself down before I almost kill myself again, I did that accidentally once, though several times were purposeful. I was cutting my palm and I slipped because I was drunk and I didn't mean to, but it happened and I cut my wrists really deep and my friend, she freaked out about the cutting, even though she was into some other stuff that could have killed her just as easily, crack and the like. But I don't want that to happen this time, so I slow down a little, just ignoring his ranting and raving about whatever was missing from his stash, I'm sure Andrew took a syringe or something. I never take anything any more because of what happened that time, that time when he tried to do away with me. I never take anything.

Take...

He takes the knife from me, jerks it out of my hand, I can feel the edge cut the flesh on my palm, but I'm used to it so I don't even flinch. He talks to me, but I don't hear his words exactly how they come out or anything, I hear something along the lines of the yelling people do when their dog goes on the carpet or something. Bad girl, very bad girl. It hurts less if I just think of it like that, like he's too dim to tell the difference between a young woman and a dog, it almost makes me laugh and one time I did, but that made him madder, and he hit me hard, so I haven't since. He hits me now, and I run to my corner to cower, it's on the chalkboard side of the room and I can see the white chalk coming off on my clothing, but I don't care because I know how to get any stain out, even blood. Blood used to be hard, but not any more because I've had to learn to live with it, make do, so I learned to wash blood out.

Blood...

I taste blood, I see it splatter on the slick floor, I'm always glad that I have hardwood floors in my bedroom because I don't want my friends to see carpet stains. I'm not sure if the blood is from the wounds I inflicted upon myself or from what he's doing to me, I can't tell and I hurt everywhere now, he hits me everywhere, so pain is no real indicator of where

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