It doesn't matter. Bland existence. Nothing. Empty. At least with pain there is a feeling I can understand. Won't do it again though. The scars were never the point - only a symptom - but they will be with me forever. I am ugly enough already - no need to make it worse. Scratch. Sever. Maim. Rend. Tear. Bleed. Hate. Why did I have to be me? What did I do that was so bad that I deserve this?
Wednesday, 20 October 1999
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