I stepped outside and met the girls, who were gathering up bottles and cans. I couldn’t talk, couldn’t explain anything. I could only say sorry and cry convulsively. I stayed with Emma, and she wrapped her arms around me until I wore myself out. Near morning, I crept out of bed. He would’ve lost it if I hadn’t come back to his place, and I wanted to be sure that nobody else was in his bed.

Bad

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.

Equation

Equation

The very best thing for me would be to end it with him and to stop being such a psycho. But I can’t stay away from him for very long. I can’t lose him. I love him with every cell in my body and I would waste away without him. Whether I stay or go, I’ll still be crazy. It all adds up to the same thing.

Vanity II

Vanity II

I’ve started cutting myself regularly. I always use the red pocketknife, making scratches on my forearms and thighs. I do it when I’m bad in bed or when I’m just bad. He thinks the scratches are disgusting; they’re all over me, and when he sees them, he just shakes his head. “Why are the beautiful ones always crazy?”

I don’t have an answer. I’m just damaged goods, but it made me happy that he called me beautiful.

Wedding

Wedding