Monologue: i'm not ok

I cut myself.
I cut myself here, here and here.
There's no intention of dying. None whatsoever.
Somehow, with each miserable drop, each little sliver, I feel better...
and it's never for more than five seconds.Ten at the most.
The blade is very gentle.
Close to a major artery? Never. Close to a main vein? Never.
Close to pain? Always precise.
I cut myself and it feels good. After five seconds of two drips, I feel great. I'm not woozy, nauseous. There's been no lack of oxygen to the brain. I'm fine. Now, you look me in the eye and tell me that this is harmful. Washing your hair too much is harmful. Eating too much meat is harmful. You tell me that this scar that is no bigger than a hairline fracture is harmful.
I'll stop. I really will. Find me a pill that doesn't make me tired or lowers my appetite. Find me a group that does make me feel any less of a person. Find me someone to talk to that doesn't make me feel like an ignorant ape. Find me that and I promise, all these instruments will disappear.


But you can't.
You can't.
And that's ok.