Two shallow cuts (TRIGGER WARNING)

Last night I cut my wrists. I had been trying to sleep, but I couldn't, my brain kept shouting at me all the reasons I had to hate my life. It told me how lonely I was and how I'd probably be all my life. It told me I was a failure and I didn't deserve success. It told me that people pitied me. That everybody hated me. That I would never become anything in life. It kept reminding me of all those times I had tried and failed. Of all the times other people moved on towards better things before I did. Of how my life has been reduced to an endless cycle of work and tears.

Nothing would make my brain shut up. Nothing. Anxiety attacks chained, leaving me a mess in my bed. The sheets tangled up between my legs, my skin covered in sweat. I felt lost in my bed, infinitely small against the roar of the world. The roar of my brain. 

My brain wouldn't shut up and that's why I got up and walked to the bathroom. I picked something sharp, I don't even recall what it was and pressed it against the skin on my forearms. Softly, at first, just to feel the cold against my skin. The cold metal was strangely soothing and the cutting motion came naturally. After it the sweet pain and the release. The numbing of all the other feelings. It was pain, but it felt good. I repeated the motion. Two shallow cuts on the skin of my left forearm, just deep enough to draw blood. Tho swallow cuts was all that took to make my brain shut up.