May 11, 2003.


victoria. v, how are you v?

sometimes i think about slitting my wrists, but i am afraid of the pain, the sight of the blood gushing out and the consequent light headedness. afraid of reaching something i am not supposed to.

as a result my cuts, when they are, are scratches, deep enough that i get the satisfaction of watching them fill with blood.

v did it though. cut herself, numerous times, cut on cuts that left a map of smooth mountains of scars, eternal, on both wrists.

i don't know olivia, but she reminds me of v, soft. i feel that i could curl up into a ball in her lap, and float away into a nothingness that can only be good. wispy smoke of a hot chocolate in winter.

we sat in silence, staring out at the world, not really seeing anything. no words were necessary.

it was peaceful.

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