The trouble with fiction is that it makes too much sense. Reality never makes sense.
I’d cut my soul into a million different pieces
just to form a constellation
to light your way home
I’d write love poems to the parts of yourself
you can’t stand
I’d stand in the shadows of your heart
and tell you i’m not afraid of your dark
Look at yourself in my hand which serves me as a mirror of everything in the world for you to recognize me for what I am, my blonde-brunette, my beauty and my beast…
Think of me, thinking only of your luster, in which slumbers the sun-drenched luxury of an earth and of all the stars I have conquered for you…
My heart bleeds upon your mouth and closes over your mouth, over all the pink chestnut trees of the avenue of your mouth where we are going, in the brilliant dust, to lie down among the meteors of your beauty…
It is not hard to live through a day, if you can live through a moment. What creates despair is the imagination, which pretends there is a future, and insists on predicting millions of moments, thousands of days, and so drains you that you cannot live the moment at hand.
My name is Gabrielle and I am twenty-eight years old. I began to self-injure at age fifteen -- so nearly thirteen years minus a two year period. This website is one about self-injury (self-harm), made to let self-injurers know that they are not alone and to help their friends and family learn more about self-injury and how it affects their loved one.