the TWENTY FIRST of DECEMBER, TWO THOUSAND and TWENTY.

there's something i relish in tearing up my flesh. digging inside of myself, prying my wounds open with the delicate tips of my fingers.
perhaps it's the lack of permanence i have towards my body, a fading vessel. to channel my bloody hatred upon, a canvas.
impure thoughts and an impure body, design the outside to match the inside! starve myself until i'm a corpse, drain my blood until i'm blue.
i don't like it when the blades are too sharp. it doesn't hurt, you don't hear the ripping. razorblades - they're bad. feels like papercuts.
i like thicker blades, ones that dig in, make gaping holes in the velvety paleness of my dermis. i want to feel it. i want to hurt.
i want to have to fucking try, to fucking force myself to dig in further and further and further. push myself to the limit.
"why?"; i have no answer. i have nothing to produce, i have no purpose. it's an impulse, curbing my cravings for worse.
i seem to believe one day i'll dig deep enough to reach my viscera, a plump, soft, velvety mess. a gift, a reward, well done!
i want to slice my guts out. i hate being this. i hate functioning. i have a primal need to destroy myself.
i wish i wasn't me, just to kill myself and watch the light leave my own eyes. self-demolition... gradual. it takes time.

take me back!