Writing Non-Fiction posted October 25, 2019

This work has reached the exceptional level
A Journal Entry: Revised

Blood Orange

by marinaluv

The author has placed a warning on this post for violence.
The author has placed a warning on this post for language.

I often find myself becoming overly invested in something as simple as
slicing an orange. I always imagine the most precise and notable cut, separating the skin and exposing the flesh of the tangy treat. My imagination conjures a sweet canal of juices in between what's left of the damaged fruit. In another dream, I envision my thigh is the orange. I see the growing gap from the blade that makes my body become one that is no longer muted or passable. The canal becomes a crimson river.
My blade feels like home within this trance. When I rise with the sun, I rise as an intruder. I lose the comfort of concern, and the flow of my dream withers away as I become more conscious. When I'm awake, there are way too many hours in a day to stop myself from falling back into the arms of classic denial. Denial is familiar, but definitely not the coziest place to be. Not for me. In the light of day, I tell myself I don't dream of pain. I tell myself that mental illness is just another distant memory I buried with half empty pill bottles and shitty weed. The little things that kept my temperament as artificial and generic as possible, while keeping me afloat.
The most authentic feeling I own, is the one when my eyes can't help but shut, and I become my secret self again. I am the woman who glides through forests and ignites the flames. I am the woman who swims in warm waters, leaving an ice trail behind me. In my most intense dream, I am the woman that disappears after a self inflicted cut. The tortured one with bruises inside and outside of her mind. I haven't always been so at peace with who I am in the dark, but over the years I have realized that sometimes pain is a sacred fruit worthy of digestion.
When I see myself, I think of my knife painting color to my form, and sensation to my life. Again, I find myself thigh-deep in the crimson river.

Perhaps these dreams are only dangerous because they aren't nightmares.
Perhaps I haven't made them a reality, because I fear that they will never surpass a fantasy's standards.

I felt it was necessary to add that I am in no way trying to romanticize or idealize the act of self-harm. Yes, this journal entry is the raw and honest truth in poetic form, but it is not meant to shed a positive light on self-inflicted cutting. This is purely my way of expressing myself throughout my ongoing journey of mental illness. I use these journal entries to reflect on my growth as a person and as an author. Thank you.
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