Tw Sh Destructive Behaviour - Blog Posts
If you have really fuckass scars when you cut over them the cut won’t close :,)
Realizing I haven’t went more than a few months without hurting myself since I was eleven.
Tw: sh
relapsed last night and WOWIE FEELS GREAT
haven’t had an outlet in a while
cut over some really bad scars and they BLEED
It's a bit weird but I find cuts attractive.
♡♡♡
oh to have a flat stomach, small ribcage, better shoulders, thin face, bigger eyes, longer eyelashes, cuter lips, no beauty marks, better nose, better hair, naturally big dark eyes, smaller feet, longer legs, longer hair and more cuts ! ! ! !
Got termed spent a few months off of tumblr binging, but I'm back and fatter than ever. I'm a minor so if that makes you uncomfortable then DNI. Ugw is 88lbs/39.9kg. Ed accounts please Interact!! 🤍
draft poem i wrote the other day about self harn and dealing with urges
TW under the cut: sh (burning)
I need it, I crave the pops of the flesh against the almost frozen heat, the metal kissing my skin as flames send that familiar smell to my face. I hunger for the sting of relief. Each time I pull my hand away from something warm that voice in my head says "stay"
Why is it that every single person that I open up to ghosts me within 2 months. I'm too much for anyone to handle. I'm not even surprised anymore. It happens with every single new relationship and I barely even care anymore. I wish I could just become a total bitch so everyone would be too scared to get close. This just fuels my desire to get as bad as possible and give people a good reason to leave.
filter: relapsing relapse
Putting this here in case Forest decides to spy what i have to say again
Do not do any of the stuff i talk about guys
a cut that always bleeds
I have not seen an uglier flag than this
i do °❀⋆.ೃ࿔*:･
"how are you feeling today?" gives me war flashbacks.
Fractured Fury
The world stands still, the air goes thin,
A silent void erupts within.
A crack inside, so sharp, so deep,
A wound that wakes but does not weep.
Then fire strikes—my veins ignite,
A raging storm, no end in sight.
My breath is smoke, my voice a blade,
A fury born, a war replayed.
I scream, I shake, the earth must hear,
A beast unleashed, too wild to steer.
The walls may break, the sky may fall,
Yet still, my rage outlives them all.
Then silence creeps, so cold, so vast,
A fragile peace that will not last.
The ashes glow, the embers hide,
But fire still burns beneath my pride.
- a little poem about how i feel about narcissistic injury and narcissistic rage :)
A midnight breeze whispers, sudden and cold,
tracing her thighs, with fingers sharp and bold.
*trying to get help with something*
"weak, worthless, useless bitch"
*splits on myself*
i need to see blood.
The first touch felt like a cure,
chaos faded, the world seemed obscure.
Sorrow hushed, anger dissolved,
in a pool of blood, a flower evolved.
Oh? You’re worried about me? Didn’t you read the label on the tin?
Abnormal
Psychology
Case
Study
This goes so much deeper than detrans kink. This goes so so so much deeper.
Identity is like a mask to be worn. I’m someone without a face. I need those masks or I am no one and nothing. I am not a person, I am just the mist, the entity between lives.
You don’t know who I am, because I don’t exist, and I never have.
This mask hurts me. That is the whole point. This mask hurts me because the pain feels good. You’re judging me for that??? Masks have a purpose. I just want to feel better okay???
Someday I’ll leave behind a lifelong schizo ARG and only in the 22nd century will people understand the art in my madness.
Please just stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop stop st
The Silence Between Us
Summary: When a mission goes wrong and you resort to bad habits, one of the last teammates you expected finds you. (Bucky Barnes x Avenger!reader)
Trigger Warnings: Descriptions and acts of SELF-HARM. Failed mission. Mentions of civilians death. Minors DNI. Angst. Sort of comfort at the end.
Word Count: 2k+
A/N: I wanted angst and have had this idea for a bit. Reader & Bucky are not in a relationship in this. As always, please read the warnings. You are responsible for the media you consume. Let me know if I should add something else to the warnings, tags, or anything else.
Main Masterlist
You hadn’t meant for anyone to get hurt. It was supposed to be a routine mission: intel, extract, and get out. But something went wrong. Of course it did. The detonation happened too early and the blast wave swallowed a civilian transport before you could shield it. You watched the fire bloom, bright and furious, as the screams rung loud. Then the silence that followed.
You stood numbly while the team regrouped. They didn’t say anything, not really. Steve gave you a tight nod. Clint didn’t meet your eyes. Natasha’s mouth pressed into a thin line, the kind that said everything and nothing all at once. You could still feel the warmth of the explosion near your face, even hours later. You couldn’t stop seeing their faces.
So you slipped away.
The Tower was quiet, save for the hum of the lights and the occasional sound of Friday responding to someone else. You knew no one would come looking, not tonight. Not after what you did and what you failed to do. You made it to your room, but didn’t stay there. Instead, you found yourself in the bathroom with trembling hands and blurry vision. The guilt was like tar in your lungs, thick and suffocating. You tried breathing through it, tried telling yourself you didn’t mean to, but your voice cracked before you got past the first word.
And then you saw the blade.
It was instinct, not thought. You weren’t even sure why your fingers wrapped around it, why you sat down on the cold tile floor and rolled up your sleeve like it was some rehearsed choreography. You just needed something. Something sharp, something real, something that hurt more than your head and your heart. The sting was almost welcome. It focused the pain. Made it tangible and controlled.
You didn’t notice the blood until it had already patterned the grout like inkblots.
You didn’t move from the floor as the blade slipped from your fingers. It clattered against the tile, but the sound was too soft, too far away. You were somewhere else now, drifting in that space where everything is slowed down and sound becomes distant, muffled, like your ears were underwater. Your breath hitched and your chest tightened, but the tears still refused to fall. Part of you had already shut down.
You stared at your arm. At the red lines, thin but vivid, like cracks in porcelain. They weren’t deep enough, not fatal. You hadn’t meant to go that far. Or maybe you had, you didn’t know. You couldn’t tell what was intentional anymore. Everything felt heavy and hollow at the same time, resembling the feeling of a black hole that had opened inside you, pulling everything inward. Every ounce of guilt, every mistake, every scream you couldn’t stop echoing in your mind.
You didn’t want to think how you looked like.
You had caught your reflection earlier by accident. Your face was pale, jaw tight, eyes…empty. You certainly didn’t look like yourself. You wanted to punch the glass, to shatter it, to make the outside match the inside. But your body had been too tired. Too numb. The only thing you could feel now was the warm, sticky drag of blood as it crept down your skin.
You curled in on yourself, knees pulled tight to your chest, one arm wrapped around your ribs, the other held away like something foreign, something broken. You wished the floor would crack open and swallow you whole. You wished you could disappear.
The thoughts came in waves. You should have died instead of them. They didn’t sign up for this. You did. You promised to protect people. The words felt like knives. And you took them all, again and again, let them bury themselves in your spine until there was nothing left to do but breathe shallowly and wait. Wait for the blood to dry, for the guilt to rot you from the inside out.
Not caring how long you sat there with your head down, eyes closed. You didn’t even hear the door open.
Maybe it was unlocked. Maybe you’d forgotten to lock it in your haze. Or maybe he just picked it, quiet as death, like he’d been trained to be. You barely flinched when the soft creak of the hinges gave him away. But your eyes didn’t lift. You stayed there, folded up like paper, still bleeding, still silent. You didn’t have the energy to care or do anything else.
There was a pause. A breath.
“…Shit.”
His voice wasn’t loud. It was low, rough, somewhere between a curse and a sigh. You knew that voice though. It was the one that rarely spoke to you. Not out of cruelty. Just…distance. He was always at the edge of the group, a little like you. Watching more than participating. Following orders, fighting hard, and saying little. You never expected him to be the one standing in your bathroom doorway, taking in the sight of you broken on the floor.
But there he was.
Bucky didn’t rush. He didn’t bark your name or kneel with some dramatic flare. Instead, he stepped in slowly, closing the door behind him with a soft click. The kind of silence that settles before a storm. You heard the faint clink of metal fingers curling into a fist, then loosening.
“You’re bleeding,” He said.
You let out a weak, joyless sound. It might’ve been a laugh. Might’ve been a sob. “Yeah. Noticed.”
You didn’t look up, knowing his eyes flickered to the bloody blade beside your broken form.
There was more silence. But it wasn’t empty this time, it was tense. A wire pulled too tight. Then the sound of fabric shifting. Movement. You felt the air change as he knelt beside you, just barely close enough to be felt but not touched.
“I saw what happened today,” Bucky murmured. “You think I don’t know what that does to someone?”
You turned your face away, more toward the tile. “I killed them.”
“No,” He said. “You didn’t.”
Your laugh came again, sharper this time. Bitter. “That’s not how it looked.”
Bucky didn’t argue. He didn’t feed you platitudes or repeat what Steve might’ve said. Instead, he shifted again, setting something down beside him. A towel? Maybe his jacket? You didn’t look. You couldn’t. But his voice stayed low, grounded.
“You freeze up when it happens,” He said, like he was talking to himself more than you. “The explosion. The screaming. It’s like your body remembers too much. You forget how to move. How to breathe.”
You said nothing.
“I’ve had days like that,” Bucky continued. “Too many. Days where I couldn’t even look at my hands without seeing the blood that wasn’t mine. That’s not something you can just… walk off.”
You blinked hard. Your vision blurred with tears that finally, finally started to fall. “I just wanted to save them.”
“I know,” He said, almost a whisper.
There was a long pause before you felt the faintest touch, metal fingers brushing yours. Not grabbing. Not pulling. Just… being there. Present. Steady. You didn’t pull away. Not this time.
You still hadn’t looked at him, but it didn’t matter.
“I’m not good at this,” He exhaled. “But I know what it’s like to be drowning in your own head. So don’t sit in it alone.”
Your voice cracked when you asked, “Why are you here?”
Bucky was quiet for a moment. Then he said something so quiet it nearly disappeared:
“Because I saw myself in you.”
He didn’t wait for your answer. Instead, he stood, the scrape of his boots on the tile echoing softly, and walked toward the small cabinet in the corner. You could hear the rustling of supplies: bandages, antiseptic, gauze, who knows what else. The faint sound of a drawer sliding open. He moved like someone who had done this before, not hurried, not hesitant, just deliberate.
You stayed still, frozen against the cold bathroom floor, not knowing what to do with the sudden tenderness in his actions. There was something surreal about it. The way he was treating you with a care that no one had given you for so long, maybe ever. The coldness of the tiles beneath your legs was starting to seep into your bones, but you didn’t move. Couldn’t move.
When he returned, it was with the first aid kit in his hands, but his expression was a bit softer, unguarded. He didn’t try to force you to look at him. Didn’t demand anything of you. He simply sat beside you again, pulling a disinfectant wipe from the kit and placing it in his lap.
He didn’t rush, didn’t say a word, as he took your arm gently, the metal of his prosthetic cool against your skin. His touch was careful, as if you were fragile in a way that didn’t show, like something beneath the surface was breaking, even though you hadn’t allowed yourself to feel it yet. His thumb brushed lightly over the cuts: too small, too shallow, but enough to leave marks.
"Let me clean them," He looked at you, his voice calm but firm.
You didn’t pull away. Not because you trusted him completely, but because you felt like you were too far gone to care about anything else.
He started with the first cut, swabbing at the wound with the antiseptic wipe, the sting of it sharp and biting. You flinched, but he was there, steady. His eyes were fixed on your arm, on the task at hand. You could feel his focus: no judgment, just intent to heal, to make the pain go away, if only for a moment.
You know you should have fought harder. Made sure to lock the door. Pushed him away. The man who had been through hell and back didn’t need to deal with this. But for some reason, he was. You didn’t know what it meant either and that scares you. Your thoughts were interrupted once more.
"You don’t have to talk," Bucky murmured after a beat, his voice low, just for you. "I know you’re not ready for that. But, know you don’t have to carry this alone. We all carry our own ghosts.”
You didn't say anything. His fingers worked efficiently, bandaging your wounds with gentle precision. The silence stretched on, but it wasn’t tense or suffocating this time. It was comforting in its quietness, like two people who didn’t need words to understand the weight of everything that had happened today. The first aid kit was closed, the sound of it calming, rhythmic.
When he finished, he looked at you, his metal hand hovering near your shoulder, as though waiting for permission. You didn’t pull away. You didn’t ask him to leave. You were still, lost in the feeling of someone caring for you in a way you hadn’t expected. Bucky didn’t press for anything. He simply let his hand rest on your shoulder.
“You’re not what happened today,” He stated quietly, his thumb brushing across the fabric of your sleeve, the touch almost tender. “You’re not what you think you are. You don’t need to punish yourself for the things out of your control.”
You didn’t know how to answer him, so you didn’t. The quietness in the room felt like a balm, the silence enveloping you like a weighted blanket. His presence was like the steady rhythm of a heartbeat, strong and unwavering. You didn’t feel the need to hide, not with him sitting beside you, patient and understanding.
Finally, he spoke again. “You need rest.” His voice was softer, quieter now, as though he knew it wasn’t just physical healing you needed. “Let me help you to your bed. Rest a little. I’ll stay if you want me to.”
You still didn’t respond or move. But this time, when his hand gently urged you to your feet, you let yourself follow his lead. You took another breath, closing your eyes just for a moment. For in that quiet space, you weren’t alone.