AN: A short story about self-injury and self-doubt . . . Harry's POV. Second person. Harry is talking to himself.
Disclaimer: Don't own it.
You feel like there aren't enough places? Not enough surface area to decorate with your beautiful, worthless crimson filth? Lines of misery, streets of pain, mapping out your journey from adequate to useless, the picture you've painted (or rather, carved) that no one else can see.
It's your story.
Liquid, dripping, spilling, pouring . . . When is it ever enough? Deeper, each notch, each record you make of your inability to cope.
When breathing is an effort don't want to make and you don't have the motivation to move.
But the lines are the evidence of your stupidity, your futility to the good of man. (Oxymoron! These are the spawn of a thousand errors) . . . Your whole race, your whole species have damned themselves. Just like you.
Watch me destroy myself for you.
The creation of those pretty little patterns, the lines . . . Reminds you to feel. That you can feel.
That there were days when you felt alive and like you wanted acknowledgement.
Now, all you can hope for is that no one will notice, no one will care.
Every person is the bane of someone's existence. You are your own.
You serve no purpose but to cause pain and suffering. Reflected in your eyes lies the corpse of your expectations. The disappointment in yourself.
Why is it so hard to move? To act? To care?
How ironic that in your quest to remain hidden, you find it difficult to cry and easy to smile, because the masks are more familiar than the truth.
You are worthless; make the line of confirmation. No one can see.
No one is looking. No one is bothering to.
Pretty little patterns. Descending.
AN: Thank you for reading.