Self-harm

When the soul becomes as thin as glass, and you stand on the edge of your own existence, the feeling, like a flock of butterflies, beats helplessly inside you. You try to reflect your pain like a mirror splitting into a thousand pieces, which alternately cut deep wounds on your soul. It was like an evening fog, which imperceptibly absorbed the surroundings, bringing silence and tenderness. But in this silence there was also a secret hidden in the heart of the mist, which not everyone could unravel. Mysterious dark outlines enveloped me like a curtain separating me from the world. I glided through this mist like a turtle in its shell, feeling its cold and serenity. In the dance of twilight, when light gives way to darkness, and your thoughts are lost in the labyrinths of night, you find yourself in a quiet world between a sharp knife and your skin. It's like a painting without colors, where every stroke reminds of an inexpressible desire for sensations that have long since dried up. My hands were like the leaves of autumn trees, slightly trembling in the wind. It seemed that they could fly apart into the winds of time at any moment. And every time they touched my skin, it was like a light touch of a butterfly, but at the same time like a needle penetrating into the very depths of my soul. My thoughts floated like soaring clouds, but there was a heaviness in them that kept them in the sky. These clouds were my emotions, and I tried to get rid of them by releasing the branches of my soul trees so that they spread, but every movement brought pain. You are immersed in the ocean of your own thoughts, and the deeper you swim, the more you feel the waves of unknown longing eroding your essence. They envelop you like a fog, hiding you from the world, forcing you to get lost in a sea of emotions, from which it is difficult to get out. You are an artist whose brushes are covered with red paint, which slowly penetrates through your veins, leaving dark prints on the canvas of your body. You try to express your pain through these abstract patterns so that someone, maybe, can figure out their meaning, but no one seems to notice your helpless creativity. You run through the fields of your own anxiety, trying to escape from yourself, but invisible chains keep you a prisoner of your own thoughts. You search for answers in the depths of your soul, but you only find silence that tears you apart and makes your being disappear into darkness. And when you leave the last traces of this heavy symphony on your skin, you realize that these wounds are indelible marks on the way to something you don't know yet. In this world where your pain remains untold and invisible, you continue on your way, leaving behind traces that will one day become part of the story of your survival.