There's a monster that lives inside of me...

Concentrated heat waves stream down onto the emotionless shell of my body. The white light cradles and frames my face, making me feel safe again. My body can perfectly feel my flesh being torn apart; my blood eagerly escaping; cold, harsh metal grating against my glistening ivory bone – and of course, the eventual crack that signals the severing of a piece of life from my whole. In an easy battle against my body, my mind simply tells me that nothing is wrong, though I’m perfectly aware of every occurrence – every incision. Every dying cell purposefully decorates all that surrounds me, and I can’t feel a thing.

I miss that clean smell. Security. There were no cares stowing away in the dark grooves of my brain, as I was barely conscious enough for coherent thought. Every day and every night I crave it. I crave the feeling of warmth that the exposed blood offers my cold, sick body; the drugs taking its effect on my pained being, muddling all my senses. I often find myself wishing I could go back to that perfect place – a place where my body would create its own art. I could see it all around me, in a wide spectrum of red spatters.

Everyone has their demons -- their fight to fight. This is simply mine. In no way do I understand this blood lust – this desperate hunger for mutilation. But I do realize the sickening nature of my desire. At times it destroys me. It digs out my soft innocent eyes, leaving the blood to find difficult paths down my cheek, my neck, and to my hands. It skillfully severs my leg as I scream with what sounds like delight, ravaging through the meat of the thigh with a sharpened knife. The serrated edge rips the muscles apart, and numbingly destroys the bones, leaving bits of marrow burrowed painfully deep in the surrounding flesh. It cuts down my spine, around my neck, down my arms and legs, slowly rips off my skin inch by inch, trying to find itself successful, leaving me beyond recognition. It slices through my carotid artery and esophagus with the clean intensity of a scalpel, leaving me choking on my own blood and watching the red shower cover it until it becomes exactly what it is – me.

With ease of conscience, people commit murder. To them, it must be art; a way of expressing themselves through the smatterings and spatterings of a life lost. It speaks loudly of their disturbed lives, shouting at all the people living peacefully beside them. I feel like I’m living in that disturbance, but I’m trapped without a medium to express it.

I can’t say I’m plagued, because part of me loves it.

I don’t expect anyone to understand. People blindly label it as something its not.

Its not about sympathy. Its not about hurting others. Its not about hating myself. Its not something I want. Its just who I am.