I'm such a liar, I'm not even worth listening to. But I'll type this anyway, because maybe - maybe - I can listen to myself for once.

I am loved by many people. I'm lucky. They don't know me, the real me, the deep one, the one with the urges and addictions, the one who crawls and weeps and tears at her pretty hair in the middle of the night.

But that's fine.

They wouldn't want to see me hitting my head against a wall for hours, and they wouldn't want to see me taking painkillers by the half dozen. They would hate to notice me holding my finger against the tip of my cigarettes.

They wouldn't want to know how inventive I've become to cause myself pain without permanent marks.

They wouldn't want to know that when I tell them I'm going through a devout phase, I'm not talking about going to church on Sundays, but whipping myself
for God's forgiveness. In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit, I wound this body to save the soul within. Amen.

That never lasts.

Religion disappoints me. Whips never do, and my boys are quite fond of them. So I put crosses away for a while and keep the kneeling and whipping.

Some of my pale, beautiful, broken boys have scars all down their arms, legs and chests. I kiss them there, and they love me for it. It's not a cry for attention, it's a cry for tenderness. Understanding. I know what they're going through, I can't help but I'm there for that one tender moment, and I love them, and they hold me forever in their hearts.

I wake up sore in the morning and smile in the early light. The world is right. Pain is right. I am wrong. So I must become pain. That's why I welcome it.

When my head is spinning and I feel like screaming and I can't stop my thoughts and there are no bodies for me to cling to around, I reach for the hammer. Human bodies are so fragile. Human minds, even more so; and if I have to make a choice I'll choose mind over matter and bring that hammer down.

Clarity. Silence. The echo of a thud, children playing down the street, a dog barking, a car alarm, birds chirping, bone cracking.

I stand next to a door for hours. When someone comes in I pretend they smashed my finger. An alibi and I can breathe easily.

And when my lovely friends, those incredible human beings who always make me feel appreciated and cared for, ask me whether I'm fine, I tense my back a little, flex my broken finger, and when I smile, my scalp aches.

Of course I'm fine. Can't you see? Everything is alright.

And they smile back, and I ache all over but I look well, and I am at peace with the edge of the world I've reached.

And I hope I never have an axe near when my mind starts spinning.