Death by a thousand cus

It is the cut. The unexpected sting. I thought I was prepared, but I didn't see it coming. I willingly did it though. I pressed forward knowing there would be UNknown. My future lay in Pandoras box. I had to open it.

As I gasp for air, I now ask 'what did I do?' The weight is so heavy. It challenges my inner strength. I take a deep breath to steady myself. Softly I whisper 'This too shall pass. Just go in, Marisa. It's what you agreed to do. It's what they expect you to do. It is what they NEED you to do.'

It is the cut. My tender skin splayed open. At first cold, then warm as the blood burns forth. I press it to my lips seeking relief, but oh how fleeting.

The clock tick tocks. Slow and heavy it thuds, every second taking it's precious time. Stealing MY time. One more minute. One more hour, siphoning away my will, my joy.

As I drift to into the void, seeking that happy place where this is not my existence, voices weave their way through my subconscious. Instructions. Proddings. Reminders of my failings.

It is the cut. A now familiar ache as another wound reveals itself. New and old, together they make a collective cry.

Pseudo-friends approach. Reassure. Their smiles tender, their soft spoken eyes beckoning me to follow. As I take that step, I remember the judgment. The shame. The abandonment.

It is the cut after cut. I beg for it to stop, but my cries remain unanswered. Flesh now exposed and raw; I am the essence of pain. Every movement seers. I recoil in surprise at how overwhelming it is, but that only brings more discomfort.

I lay down and drown myself in tears. Why did I open that box? Like a woman hearing the caustic words of her lover and begging him to just hit her, I pray for them to finish this.

Instead, another cut.

It is my life of pain and my death by a thousand cuts.

Do they know I am slowly dying so that they think I may live?