So which arm will hurt today? Left one, or right? It's not like I mean to shave so close to the skin, but it always seems to happen that way.
I suppose it's to make up or the lack of self-harm, haven't done that in a while.
The worse part about it though, I still lust for it, beg for the satisfying taste of metal against my freshly tanned skin. My underarms burn so damn much.
Stupid prescription deodorant, stupid sweating. What is even stupider is that I let my friend talk to me into such sorrow in the first place. That 7th grade weekend still haunts me.
"Just try it, I promise you'll like it." I didn't want to do it, but I felt as if I owed her for all her years of loyalty. Her lessons sure did stick with me.
Now I find myself doing it more than once a week. Good thing scars are easy to cover up. Another long sleeve shirt in the hamper. More clothes wasted on winter clothes in the spring.
Can't say it isn't worth it. It's better than getting caught. The scars feel better in the winter, all the cold trying to creep its way underneath your skin.
As if it doesn't burn enough in the first place. You get used to it. The nervous feeling you stomach receives, those butterflies. The regret right before the climax, it never seems to grow old.
I can't imagine doing such a vain thing as I grow older, or can I?
Coming home from a long day at work to break skin, that trickling, red icing ever so sweet, eating, bathing, there go those razors again.
I might just convince one of my own friends to try it out, but can I really call her my friend if I convince her to hurt herself?
It's such a wonderland of happiness, way better than Disney World. "Hey Jenny, you've always wanted to feel cool right? This adventure is free.
" Well, minus the rebellion of sneaking razors out of the store, bumming a couple dollars from mom's purse. It's all uphill from here.