So why? Why do I hurt myself?
Why do I enjoy self-inflicted pain? In order to feel.
In order to feel anything. To briefly escape this shroud of melancholia, in which I am enveloped.
This parasitic emptiness.
I dig and scratch at my skin until I see blood because the sight of blood shows me that I am not yet an empty vessel. A drop of blood means a heartbeat is still present.
There is still a heartbeat, pumping at least a sliver of life through my veins. A heartbeat that convinces me to carry on living, as without this I am physically dead as well as emotionally.
My soul is dead and decays from the inside. A soul which used to be full of life is now rotten goods.
Left for dead at the side of the road to be picked apart by preying vultures, until all that is left is a dry skeleton.
The remains of what used to be and what will never return.