Sweetest_Form_of_Suicide

Love: sweetest form of suicide. “Poor self-image. A low self-esteem. A desire for a better body. A loss of control. These are the things that most cutters have in common. I know, because all these things once described me. Belle Harriet-2007. I ran my fingers beside her cuts as she slept. They were barely noticeable, but still there. She told me they were old but I pretty much figured out they weren’t. I softly whispered, “I know you may roll your eyes at this but I’m so glad you exist” For every bracelet another scar.... She’d started doing it to cope with her life; I figured .As time passed the wounds would get finer and bigger. Her parents were divorcing, and her social life nonexistent. Still hasn’t realised that perfect is only in imperfection. Why she kept doing it... I’ll never know nor understand. Never did she realise, this wounded me as much as it wounded her. So I cry. I’ve asked her a few times but she would quickly avert her eyes, not wishing for an exchange of words. Although she did say it was like a drug... obsessive. I ran my fingers beside her cuts as she slept. This time more noticeable. She told me they were scars, unable to fade but I pretty much figured out they weren’t. I softly whispered, “I know you may roll your eyes at this but I’m so glad you exist. Her beautiful face, colourless and dreary. I can feel her pulling away from me. How can I just sit back and watch, this self-destruction bound to happen. She is my world, my life. Her eyes now dull and lifeless, skin deathlike and bruised. I want to scream at her ask WHY' She’s going through razors faster than one can imagine. She’s dead on the inside and barely living on the out. A month later now and she’s getting thinner. Just skin and bones. She must know I know by now. She’s sleeping on the couch or on the recliner. I don’t think she can stand the sight of me. She’s pulled completely into herself. And so I cried. She’s getting more obvious and she knows it. She’s talking less, doesn’t make eye contact. , I ran my fingers along her scars, where it doesn’t matter. Her body was cold and tinted blue. Shes unbelievably thin, just over 40 pounds. This was hopeless; I feel my pulse quicken as my heart knew it was only a matter of time before it came to this. I knew, but it still killed me. I came home and found her on the floor, bathed in blood, still holding the razor that ended her life, with a note. It read: You weren’t enough for me. And so I cried.