There were times when she thought she didn't need to do it anymore, times when she thought she was done with it. Cutting made her feel like she was... special, like she had something. She liked having the ability to inflict pain whenever she wanted, and she liked that she could stop it. Not that she really wanted to. When she thought she was done, it made her empty, unsure if this was really living. She would ask herself if this was happiness, and told herself that if it was, she hated it. Cutting made her feel different then everyone else, but she also knew that other people did it for the same reasons, that made her feel that she was a part of something. Then there were times when the tears from her eyes burned a path down her cheek, and her throat was so tight she couldn't scream no matter how much she tried. Those times she would find relief only by cutting up her skin and bleeding out all the painful screams. The pain of living altogether flowed from one simple cut. She didn't care where she cut, arms, legs, stomach, or wrists. As long as she keeps cutting she can live to tomorrow