04/16/02 - 12:57 a.m.

Don�t.

Don�t share.

Talking about cutting yourself to me.

I am recovering. But not cured.

It�s on the level of bragging to an alcoholic about how you drunk you were last night.

I don�t want to know. I know it is selfish, inconsiderate, cold, uncompassionate. But don�t remind me of how much pressure the tiny stripes of pain can relieve. I don�t want to start thinking about the blades, razors, knives. I don�t want to think about how much better my skin feels after the vents are made. Or how badly my blood craves fresh air. Trying to burst out of my body.

I haven�t felt the madness in months, but just a few words, simple reminders, and suddenly there is a corner of my mind awakened. It�s where the pressure starts. I hear it seeping over my memories, collecting in the present. Reminding me of the anxiety of the future.

Now I have to hide to keep myself away from the satisfaction, from the sigh of skin.

It would be better if you pretended not to participate in the secret slashing.