cold, shiny, comforting. These are the words that run through my mind as I sit with my back against the bathroom door. With a blade in my hand, the harsh words from my mothers mouth are inside my head and traveling through my blood stream.  I use the blade to get the words out, and they flow through  dark red cuts across my wrist. My pain has been released, and the pain on my wrist keeps me from thinking about the pain in my heart. As I sit in the bathroom I keep telling myself that this is the last time, this is the last I'll ever cut myself. I'll trow away the blade that's hidden in my room, my backpack, my purse. I'll through them all away, because I no longer need this metal comfort.  They say time heals all wounds, but so does this razor blade that slides perfectly across my skin.  How can something that feels so good, cause so much damage? The sad part is my mother doesn't even seem to notice.  Maybe I want her to, maybe I want her to run into the bathroom and take the blade from my hands and tell me she will never use hurtful words again.  But that will never happen, life isn't a fairy tale, so I have to get rid of my blades all on my own, and tell myself that I don't need to hurt myself to get rid of the pain that others inflict upon me. As I look at the scars that cover my arms all I can think of is why they are there in the fist place.  Each  scar tells a story of my past, but none of them tell a story of my future.  and I want to keep it that way, even though every time I hurt all I want to do is to pull out my metal comfort and ease my pain.