FicWad

The cuts aren't deep, only one of them leaves blood over my blue vain. But the skin is raised and tinted pink, the word 'fat' scrawled with shards of the mirror I broke so long ago and made a habit of using to cut. The mirror is small and dull, I can't physically cut deep. Even if I could, I don't know that I would.

I'm fat, not obese but fat. I'm not technically overweight, but I have this disgusting gut that needs to go away. A frontman can't look like this. I just can't, can't look like this. I can't have these cuts either, they don't help anything. But the blade is dull and I can't cut deep-- the most time they ever take to heal is a few days. I can live in a few days, sigh as I look at the marks on my wrist.

They say people commit suicide, or self harm, because they're sick of life, angry, depressed or bored. I would certainly fall into the last category.

I were songs, I get to express myself through my art. But it's all shit, I don't have a muse, a reason to be anything but bored. My wife is touring, my daughter-- who knows what happened to Bandit? She's at the daycare, I have to pick he up later.

But I'm... So utterly bored. 

There's nothing to do, nothing keeps my attention. But... When I have a shard of mirror that will never do me any real damage, I find my mood as calm as ever as I cut into the flesh, and then there's this delicious fascination with watching the blood seep onto my pale skin, beading up and pouring out. A strange thing to like, but like it I do. I like it, I love it and whenever I see the piece of mirror lying idly by I can't help but wonder how deep I can push it, how much I can put on myself.

I never get very deep, I can't. Not with the mirror.

It's good, though. 

Because I'm all alone,

all alone,

all alone...