Was I born a masochist or did society make me this way?

Tag: self harm


I remember when he never loved me. This was before we had met. He was just another nameless boy who existed at the same time as I did, but our lives never collided. He kissed many girls but he never loved them back. They all loved him. He thought he loved one, or at least he really really wanted to. He wanted to so much that he had her name imprinted onto his ankle, in case he forgot to love her. He never forgot, because he never loved her.

I remember when he always loved me. This was the first time I sneaked into his bed and told him I couldn’t sleep. I could sleep, everyone sleeps eventually. But he knew what I really meant. He put his arm around me and that was the beginning of every bad decision we ever made together. Every secret smile, every sordid kiss, every sinful night that ended with messy sheets and knotted hair, I remember. He remembers too. He hadn’t planned on loving me, but he started waking up in the mornings with a smile on his face. He started saying ‘good morning’ like he meant it. He started to prefer coffee the way I made it. He always loved me and he didn’t know how to stop. Love can be dangerous, he knew this. I never knew this then. Now I always know.

I remember later, when he never loved me. This was when my head had gone bad again and I could no longer see the sun. I started to draw red lines all over my body and I was never pretty, I was always sad. He started kissing other girls again and it was easy because he never loved me. He felt trapped but too trapped to tell anyone or do anything to free himself. I learned it is possible to be tangled together with a person yet still feel lonely. We kissed each other less but when we did, we left bruises. When he finally found the courage to be worse at lying, I slit his throat and buried him under the sea. It was easy, because he never loved me.


I will tuck away my fond memories of what could have been, hide them in the darkest corners of my mind, far out of reach. I will wait for the pain to subside and tell myself at least I’m still alive.

I will hide the scars with long sleeves and feign a smile when summer comes and people stare. I will stare back harshly and dare them to question my integrity.

I will let you think you’re right because I can’t fight dirty, it’s too tiring and my heart can’t take anymore. I don’t want to have the last laugh, the final words, they taste too bitter.

I will go to movies with other boys and pretend I want them to kiss me when the credits roll. I will rest my head on their shoulders and they’ll think I want to be there.

I will write poems of how you kissed me and you’ll never read them. I will write stories of how we met and you won’t remember. I will keep writing till there’s nothing left.

I will find someone sweeter, and you won’t hurt me anymore. I will remember how foolish I was, to think that love was worth dying for.


There is a tension in the air, strings pulled; puppets dance. You hold your breath and kiss her, never letting go of her hand. You hope you never have to let ago again. She stands still while your heart beats faster and faster till you feel it, you’re not sure how to explain it but you’re certain it skipped a beat.

She laughed so carelessly it almost infuriated you. You wanted her to acknowledge what she had done. How her thoughtless tendencies had ruined everything. How she turned your world upside down with her pretty red mouth and defied your walls, forced her way into your thoughts and dreams.

But you couldn’t bear to interrupt her while she looked so peaceful. Her hair hanging loosely on her shoulders, straight but messy, because she wasn’t the sort who obsessed with her appearance. Maybe she ought to have cared more, perhaps she lacked the superficial necessities that would make her seem less cheap.

Your fingers trace the scars on her arms, down her waist, over her thighs, finally meeting the gruesome slash that made you turn away. She laughed about it, the same way she laughs at everything she’s tired of crying over. That was the time she accidentally cut too deep. The knife was brand new, you see.

Sensible self harm. She didn’t think it was any different to alcoholism, drug addiction, or smoking. Part of her wanted to forget, the other part was terrified of repeating the same mistakes. Some people get tattoos to honour a memory. Some people write things down on a diary. She preferred her own ink, on skin.


You told me it was terrible and you couldn’t understand it. The destruction of something beautiful, for no good reason. I suppose even a feeble attempt is commendable, so let me try to explain.

It starts with a thought, a tiny, insignificant seed of a thought, telling me it’s time. I ignore it, I stay away from it, I don’t touch it, I don’t tempt it, I don’t provoke it. I often run in the opposite direction, but the thought chases me and it grows. Then something happens.

Anything can be a trigger if you’re broken enough. It could be a malicious rumour spread by a jealous friend. It could be a vague comment from my mother spoken in her seasoned tone of bitter disappointment. It could be a well written song that sings too much truth of the past. It could be anything that hits too close to the mark.

It catches up and swallows me whole, this wild, overwhelming feeling of inadequacy. A deep, unwavering awareness that everything’s gone wrong and I’ve filled a lifetime’s quota of mistakes in the span of two decades. Like the moth that’s doomed to perish in brilliant flames, my helplessness, my inability to change who I am and how I feel, how I always feel too much and hurt too deeply, my foolery will be the end of me.

The sadness weighs me down, tires me out, and sometimes I want nothing more than to just forget. But that would be too selfish. Suicide is just another luxury I cannot afford. Because there are people who would care, who would hurt, who would never forgive me, and I love them too much to make them cry.

You asked me why I did it, even when you made me happy. What did you expect me to say? That I’m the defective product built by twenty years of neglect from parents who wished for a boy and eventually got one? That I’m the perfect example of the monster you can create with constant criticism and lack of affection? That I’m the defeated girl who laughed about getting raped because it wasn’t the worst thing that ever happened to her? Or that maybe I’m simply the collateral damage of thoughtless words, careless actions, and clever lies.

Are you satisfied to finally hear me admit it? This is why I fucking cut sometimes. Because the wounds keep healing and the scars keep fading but the hurt stays the same. Because the nightmares never go away and it just feels better. Because death is too permanent and I’m still waiting for life to give me a reason to stay.

So I do it methodically, like the answer to a mathematical equation. Sharp, straight red lines, and when the blood creeps through the gaps, I’m filled with a perverted sense of calm. When the pain joins in, my breathing syncs with the ache. When the scars form, I begin all over again.


I should have kissed you harder. I should have left a mark. I should have shook your shoulders till the world was unbalanced and you listened to your heart.

I should have held you tighter. I should have seen your flaws. I should have urged you sooner to question your absurd definitions of love.

I should have laughed louder. I should have altered the tone. I should have realised there was too much of you I could never own.

I should have looked closer. I should have seen the signs. I should have recognised the lies you told because you thought you were mine.

I should have loved another. I should have made you pay. I should have understood the insincerity and walked away.

I should have cut deeper. I should have dug the blade into my bones. I should have watched the pain flow out and left you all alone.


That first drop of blood. Euphoric.

You’d never understand. 

It takes a while for the pain to kick in, and then it all starts making sense. All those scars you never meant to make, just to prove a point, to show him what he’d done. 

Perhaps he never meant to hurt you. Maybe you were just collateral damage. An accident he regretted but never bothered to fix, to make right, because men are lazy that way.

You learn to love the ache. The subtle pain of a healing cut. It reminds you that all of it is real. That life goes on, with or without you. But the scars don’t make you stronger, they just make you easier to break. 

When you let someone in, when you admit your darkest secrets and deepest fears, they take a part of you. You lose a part of yourself every time you love someone, and they never have the decency to return what they didn’t deserve. 

So don’t stand there with those innocent blue eyes and tell me I’m strong and beautiful. 

I’m not.

I’m broken. I’m damaged goods. I don’t know how to fix myself and you’re not here anymore. That hurts the most. 


It was never just about pain.

Every slice, every scar, the flowing red leaves no room for redemption.

Reminders of mistakes in the past, doom of tomorrow, and the nagging thought that you might not even make it.

Sorrow hidden well behind lowered lashes, distracting voices of concern, voices that don’t understand.

Alone in the tub, the water scalding hot, watch it flow, a mesmerising crimson glow. You’re alone, even when he holds you. You’re alone, even when you’re not.

Tread carefully. Don’t create new enemies. Hide from the old ones and fight for the courage to get up in the morning.

I doubt my friends, my foes, my lover. I doubt myself more than ever. The deceitful smiles and vicious whispers, merge together till I lose control, lose myself in my own web of lies. 


These words are not coming easily to me.
I stare at the blankness and I want to bleed.
Fill the pages with blind rage and paint it red.
It seems the only way the monster within will be fed.

Tell me, girl, did it hurt when you fell?
Was it nearly as bad as being pushed down a well?
Tell me, boy, did you bother to cry?
Were you kind enough to fake a tearful goodbye?

I’ve been waiting in line, waiting to die, waiting to see what’s on the other side.

I heard it tonight, I’ve heard it before, I heard it when I sank and my knees hit the floor.

I see where you hide, I see through your lies, I see the way you avoid looking into my eyes.

I find you funny, I find you mad, the only dreams I have left are ones that make me sad.


Cut me up and leave me hanging.

Twist me open and feel it burning.

Watch the bruise turn black and blue.

Singing this tune just for you.

Drops of life fall to the floor.

Euphoric lines leave you wanting more.

Shades of red form hidden grace.

Filling in the empty space.

I’ll turn heaven into hell.

Smile so sweetly you’d never tell.


“While you have your dark side, it seems you just really want cuddles, a bit of attention, some pampering and just being treated sweetly. But you work so hard to smother that side. You just need to be treated nice, and you could be the sweetest thing. While I’m not sure if it’s my place to say it, especially since it’s going to sound blunt and annoying like the people who say these things, but, I feel sad for you sometimes.”

I wish I could thank him for his honesty. But it’s difficult to be thankful about anything when you feel yourself slipping back to the dark shadows of a relapse. This has to be one of the worst triggers in the world, and despite all I know of shame and vulnerability, I know I’ll always be too ashamed to tell him the truth. He probably wouldn’t understand anyway, but knowing him, he’d pretend to, and I’d have to pretend I didn’t know.

I don’t want him.

I don’t want him to want me.

But I so desperately wish I was enough for him, even if we didn’t want each other.

I wish I was enough for someone who is enough for me.


She was broken. They broke her.

It wasn’t difficult to tell.

Have you ever bothered to notice the way she conducts herself?

When she stands she always leans against the wall, even if it’s not there. If you nudged her she’d fall, if you hugged her she’d snap like a twig.

Have you seen the way she sits? She’d hug herself close, like she was hiding from something, defending herself from invisible monsters.

Have you seen her skin? Of course you have. But I’m not talking about the parts she shows. No, she could wear tank tops and mini skirts and you’d still never know. She had scars everywhere underneath the gear, some offensively obvious, others harder to spot. If you looked close enough and listened between the lines, they all exposed a life built on lies. That’s why she hated liars, especially the ones with “good intentions”.


She was young when she rushed into war, and her heart became collateral damage. You can’t bring her back with kind words and affection, it’s too late for that. There’s no spark in her eyes, no signs of life.

She survived but she’s not the same girl any more.


Don’t play the fool.
Don’t try to free her.
Just watch her fall and enjoy the emptiness of it all.


Pop a bottle
Draw a bath
Take a blade
Make it last 


I have scars on my body from cuts I could see

I have scars on my heart from playing make believe