Bad

I think I’m losing my mind. I’ve been so crazy that I haven’t seen the writing on the wall. He’s never going to be my boyfriend, especially if I act like this. But I can’t control myself—I’m always crying, always sensitive, always horrible. The last time I gave him a blow job, I powered through it until he ejaculated, and then I ran to the bathroom and retched and vomited. I collapsed on the floor and lay there among the pubic hairs and piss stains and cried. I was ashamed for being so pathetic. I beat my head against the toilet, feeling like an animal that had locked its own cage.

I looked at my ugly face in the mirror and tried to wipe away the tears, calm the swelling. I fumbled for my makeup bag to freshen up. But instead, I fished out the red pocketknife, untucked a sharp blade, and cut a few scratches on the inside of my thigh. I don’t know why. I’d never done anything like that before. But I watched the blood bead and run down my thigh toward my knee, and for a little while, I felt better. The cut let out the pressure in my head—I wasn’t going to explode, I had stopped crying. Everything bad had been gathered together into this little scratch—just a normal wound. It served me right, felt right.