Cara

Thursday, Mar. 17, 2011-
The little girl ran her index finger over the sharp edge of the blade. Instantly she felt a sharp tingling sensation and her heart skipped a couple of beats. She looked at her finger, a small speck of red had formed on the tip. She looked at it with eyes wide open. She stood there mesmerized.

That�s when her mother came to the bathroom and said �Cara! What are you doing in there !?,� Now, a few months later she was holding a very similar blade between her fingers. Choking on her own tears, thoughts racing about him and what he did to her. It was all so unbearable. She imagined her dad's face if she would roll up her sleeves in front of him. She imagined his face turning to stone as he looked at the blood dripping from the fresh cuts. He would know without a shadow of a doubt that they were all his fault. He would rot with guilt. The now not-so-little girl smiled viciously through her tears and allowed herself to feel the greatest release of all. Revenge was so sweet. If only he was not thousands of miles away....

She never did get revenge. And he never did see those fresh cuts. She wanted a reaction but at the same time, she couldn�t bring herself to show such vulnerability to him, no matter how contrived it was. When he called she refused to talk to him.

She learned so many things over her short years and life brings her back to those lessons all the time. Some people have a recollection of her saying casually that she wished to kill herself. No one knew back then about the vivid detail about self mutilation and the emotional distress she had to go through. She saw her life as so epically difficult and saw herself such a broken, fragile thing unable to snap out of her spiral of self-indulgence.

Embrace the darkness, for this is what you wished for.
Shun the light, for it brings you nothing but insecurities.
Indulge in loneliness and self-pity, for it makes you feel something.
Ignore those trying to be there for you, for they don�t understand the need�
The need to be alone.
The need to be at war with yourself.
The need to hide from satisfaction.
To always be broken.
A tragic heroine in your own right.
You�ll go down in history for your suffering.
But none of them must know that you enjoy it.
None must know that.
For they wouldn�t pity you then.
 It�s better to feel despair.
It�s reassuring.
Like a pulse.
It assures you that you�re human.

The apathy�
Is terrifying.  
No longer the victim of heartbreak, but the offender.
But she didn�t.
She didn�t see anything.
All she could do was feel.
Her anger
Her hurt
Her wounds
Her own heart.
Gradually losing its grip on life.
In his hands.

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