I'm a brand new person now, I suppose. 4 months ago seems years ago, and the moments and minutes and years that happened before are like rolls of film from old black and white movies. They play through my mind with no sound or color, constantly blurring and never clear. Sometimes when I lay in bed at night thinking of those years in the "before", I feel like Norma Desmond, trapped inside my own mind, forever watching clips of a time where things were different and slowly going mad. But then I would remember how dark those times were, and how ironic it is that I hate all my secrets being out in the open now, but 4 or 5 months ago, all I wanted to do was scream them out to the world. Life is getting better though, or at least, I am getting better. How foolish it was to have attempted to take my own life, I see that now. Sometimes when I smile, or when I laugh, or when I feel a pleasant winter breeze graze through my hair like snowy fingers, I think about how easily those moments could have never existed.

There are times, many times, mostly occurring in the dead of night and in the darkest of fantasies, I think of the feel of icy blades on my skin, the jolt of giddiness to my stomach that seemed to shoot from the blade itself like a shot of adrenaline pushed from a syringe, and the trickles of blood popping from the indented skin, like little red fish swimming up for air. Most of the time I had the sense to shake myself and get a glass of water, but sometimes…well. There is this spot, right above my left leg, that is always covered by clothing, except of course when I bathe, and that I have full reign on. Sometimes, when I don't shake myself and drink water, when the thought of bitter sweet pain seems a little too inviting, I sneak my finger into a whole I made in my mattress and take out the small Swiss army knife in there. It had been 2 months ago when I saw it hanging off the book bag of someone waking in front of me in the school hallway. I had swallowed my guilt and stolen it, snapped it off his bag with a jolt to my gut out of the nervous fear that someone would see me, but no one batted an eye. But of course, I only use it occasionally.

Blaine remained ignorant to my little secret hiding place. He thought, maybe out desperation, that I was perfectly fine, and perfectly unscathed. During my dry periods where the small knife lay untouched, hidden under cotton and sheets, I feel no guilt for lying to him, for doing whatever I could to hide the patch of skin on my lower hip. But sometimes, when I'm not so guiltless, I find it hard too look him in the eyes. I've realized many things now that I didn't know before. Cutting has become more of a desire than a crutch now a days. It is not something I do when I am feeling low, but when I'm feeling bored or restless. Also, I had learned that Blaine loved me. He drove so long every morning just so he can be with me as often as possible. Even dad and Finn had gotten used to his presence. There are no more "how are you getting home"'s or "staying for dinner?"'s. sometimes Blaine went home, sometimes he didn't, but he always stayed for dinner, and he always washed the dishes and helped with household chores.

Dad and Blaine had seemed to come to some sort of unspoken agreement involving mine and Blaine's living situation. Blaine was always allowed in my room, as long as he told dad everything he thought might be wrong with me. Sometimes I felt like Blaine was some sort of secret spy set out to track and record my every move, but even if he was, I had also realized that I loved him back, and nothing would make me want to be absent of his presence. Sometimes I caught him looking at me with teary eyes, but I never called him out on it. I know trying to take my own life four months ago haunts his thoughts, and I know that the possibility of me trying such a thing again has become his greatest fear.

Though Blaine feared it so greatly, though my father was practically, if not literally ill with the fear of it, I have no plans to attempt suicide again. There was a time period after getting out of the hospital where I would always have a space in the front of my mind reserved for suicidal madness. That place in my mind still exists, but it seems every time I enter it, I find a million pieces of life I haven't experienced yet.

I found out a couple weeks ago that Finn had been carrying around the pocket watch I gave him everywhere he went. He seemed ashamed to admit it, but sometimes I see a glint of silver from his back pocket when he walks by. I don't bring him warm milk anymore; it seems ever since that day 4 months ago I have gotten a new way of thinking. What was the point of bringing the milk to him? To be honest I don't think he ever drank it, and I think I might just make a fool of myself if I do it again. Just like Blaine, I sometimes catch Finn looking at me in a pained expression, and he's always so reluctant to leave my side. Finn never gave up his insistent protectiveness at school, and people wouldn't dare touch me or say one bad word to me after Finn beat up Karofsky and got suspended for a week.

Dad is the worst though; I don't think I could ever fully appreciate how much doing what I did has hurt him. He's been trying so hard to be the best father he can by doing all those things he never wanted to do before, but the problem is I'm no longer that kid who wanted to play tea party and figure out which color of raspberry went best with aqua. Sure, I still loved fashion and show tunes and all the things I did before, but it was as if they all seemed like something I would start being passionate about again later, for it seemed so pointless now. I wish I could give the world to my father for everything I've done to him, all the things I do on a daily basis that send him into panics that keep him shivering and anxious every waking moment.

Blaine and I were sitting on my bed doing our homework in our pajamas. It was late at night and the moon shone through the open window in beams of bluish grey, illuminating the floor and dancing with the flickering light of the candles set all around the room. I always liked candle light better than florescent because it felt so natural, and the florescent lights were so unflattering. Blaine wasn't so fond of them, but he kept his mouth shut. My mind drifted easily from the dynamics of wwII to Blaine, whose eyebrows were furrowed and tongue between his teeth in concentration. It wasn't until I noticed the sheets on my bed had been carelessly left awry around the area of the hole in my mattress, Blaine's fingers toying with the fabric so incredibly close to the hiding spot, that my mind stopped thinking about Blaine's lips.

My heart seemed to have stopped beating right there. If Blaine found my knife, I was sure it would be like taking his heart and squeezing it until it popped. I had no idea what to do, and it was only a matter of time before Blaine's fingers found the ripped fabric. But would it be so bad if Blaine did find my knife? The thought was insane. Though for some reason I had gotten the most peculiar urge to let Blaine find it. So, feeling crazy and determined at the same time, I sat pretending to be concentrating on my homework while keeping one eye on Blaine's fingers, which had started to circle the rip in the fabric. It seemed each clockwise swirl around the hole that Blaine's finger made raised my heart rate repeatedly, and surly he could feel it now! Surly Blaine would soon feel cold metal on his finger tips and stop this torturous rising of my heart beats which I could feel beating and beating in my neck, sending heat to my face and weight to my stomach.

Blaine's finger stopped swirling, his eyes stop moving, and he was still. I was still as well, immediately regretting having not distracted Blaine the second I noticed danger. Panic crept up my stomach into my throat, fogging my brain, still I sat still, but not as still as Blaine. Blaine moved his finger down into the rip as I felt tears welling in my eyes, and pulled out the small, silver grey, Swiss army knife. There was a moment where Blaine seemed to stare at the knife with no expression at all, then he grabbed it in his fist and squeezed hard, his knuckles whitening, and looked up at me, but I kept my eyes down, a single tear falling onto my empty paper. I glanced up momentarily to see Blaine who had his eyes closed, the tightly clenched fist that held the knife held up to his lips. I would have thought he was kissing it, but the part of his face not obscured by the fist was one of misery. Deciding not to look back down again, I stared at Blaine as he remained as he was for a long time, looking as if he were thinking with all the energy he had, and I did not dare speak.

After what seemed a long time, Blaine opened his eyes, and suddenly I didn't have the courage to keep looking up, and hurriedly swiped my gaze back down to a tear stained, empty piece of notebook paper.

"Let me see them." said Blaine, his voice sounding choked and Brocken.

At first, I thought I could play stupid and ask what he meant, but I knew, and Blaine knew that I knew, what he was talking about. What was the point of hiding them? Part of me even wanted to show him. They had become sort of friends to me, I had this strange admiration for them, and I even felt a bit protective over them. It made no sense to me, how someone could admire self-inflicted cuts, how I loved them in a way. A completely illogical part of my mind wanted Blaine to see them, wanted to show Blaine these little pieces of me that I loved, though I knew they were wrong. I gave Blaine a tearful look, and with a demeanor of someone in deep shame I sat in criss cross as Blaine did the same, and pulled down the corner of the left side of my pajama pants to show the patch of skin on my leg bearing long red scabs set in straight and diagonal lines. He stared at them, looking oddly beautiful, as if he wished to press his lips to them to make them go away in love. Blaine reached out his hands, one holding on tight to my hand which lay in my lap, and the other touching my hand which kept the scabs uncovered to indicate I should let the fabric slide back over my cuts. He made so he was holding both my hands in-between us, and he bore into my eyes with such intensity that I only just managed to keep from averting my eyes. This was worst than scolding and worst than a disappointed stare, this was feeling hopeless in the face of the boy who I loved and who loved me, knowing that Blaine wanted more than life itself to help me, but I could never give that to him because I knew the answer no better than he.

"I wish" croaked Blaine, sounding as though it was a choice between speaking and sobbing."I wish I knew how to help you Kurt, and I wish I knew what you needed, and I've had a lot of time to think. Now if your father knew I was doing this, I would never be allowed within 50 feet of you, and if I'm wrong I don't think I could ever forgive myself."

I felt strange and anxious, and felt especially foolish for wishing in the back of my mind that Blaine would present some miracle answer to all my problems, all my confusion.

"I'm not going to take the knife away from you Kurt. I'm going to put it back where I found it and I'm not going to tell your father I saw it, but Kurt," Blaine became very intense then, more intense than he had been before, and I knew that what he was about to say would be thick with emotion. "Kurt you need to promise me with everything remotely sacred to you that you will not use it in any way to harm yourself. I feel like taking away the control of having the knife will only make it more… likely, but the thought of you hurting yourself is too much for me to bare so please Kurt, please promise you will not hurt yourself with it even though you can, please promise me that, because I love you Kurt and I can't stand to think that I am just letting you hurt yourself." Blaine finished, and he looking hopefully at me, looking so desperate with tears in his eyes and his hands holding mine so tightly that I don't think he was aware of his strength.