I want it out.

Day by day my torment grows.

I keep much of it hidden from the publics eye and the only reason I have kept my sanity this far ad not taken to myself with a knife is because of that fatal human flaw, hope.

There are only 4 days that remain until I get my answer. I will either be granted the help I need or turned away again. Depending on the mood of my arbiter it will either be a gift that is bestowed or another cold rejection. If it it the latter I will have to accept the fact that no help will be given to me, no matter the damage that is being done.

I will take to my blades and turn them on my own body.

It’s easier to live with a scar of the body, they heal only to leave a subtle reminder of your choice. A scar of the mind however does not ever heal, it’s always there… a wound that reopens every time your conciseness awakens from a slumber and becomes aware once more.

I want it out.

I want it out…


No matter the price.


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