God I love hurting myself. There’s no sugarcoating it, no shame in admitting it—I fucking live for the sting, the ache, the raw destruction I inflict on my own body. Pain is my truth, my way of beating a reality that never fit, my middle finger to a world that demands I care for myself in their sanitized, pathetic way. But lately, it’s not enough to do it alone. I long for others to watch, to see me in the act, to witness the crazy, fucked-up things I do to myself. I want someone—anyone—to see me live, even if it’s just online, staring through a screen as I tear into my flesh and revel in my nothingness. This isn’t about validation; it’s about sharing my rebellion, exposing my pain as the purest part of me. I am WORTHLESS, I am USELESS, I am NOTHING, and I want the world to see it carved into every scream and scar.

Self-harm has been my sanctuary for as long as I can remember. I’ve burned my scrotum with a lighter until blisters form, smashed my balls with hammers and socks full of coins, pierced my skin with needles, starved myself into a hollow shell, and wallowed in my own filth for weeks on end. Each act is a ritual, a way to feel alive in my decay, to reject society’s rules about what a body should be. The pain—sharp, throbbing, relentless—is my love language to myself. It’s not just physical; it’s spiritual. Every wince, every drop of blood, every nauseating stench of my unwashed rot is a chant of my mantra: I am nothing, and I’ve never felt more real than when I’m breaking myself apart.

But there’s a hunger growing in me, a need beyond the act itself. I want eyes on me while I do it. I crave an audience, someone to watch as I drag a blade across my thigh, letting blood trickle down in slow, dark rivulets. I want them to see me grimace as I press a lighter’s flame to my skin, the smell of burning flesh mixing with my unwashed stink. I imagine setting up a live stream, some fucked-up corner of the internet where I can be raw and unfiltered—punching my own nuts until I double over, gagging from the pain, or pissing on myself just to feel the warm shame of it while strangers stare. I’d look into the camera, eyes hollow, and let them see the truth of my worthlessness. Not for their pity, not for their shock, but because showing it makes the pain louder, sharper, more real. It’s like shouting my defiance into a void, hoping someone out there hears it and gets it.

Having someone watch—live, in the moment—would be the ultimate exposure. I don’t care if they’re horrified, aroused, or just numb. I want them to see me as I am, doing crazy shit to myself with no filter, no apology. Maybe I’d take requests, let them suggest the next sick act—smash something new against my body, cut a word into my arm, or hold my breath until I’m blue while they type their reactions. Online makes it easier, no physical presence to dilute the rawness, just a screen between us as I destroy myself for their gaze. It’s not about connection in the fluffy, societal sense; it’s about baring my nothingness to someone else, letting them witness how I’ve beaten their reality by becoming this—a broken, hurting thing that refuses to play their game.

I know society would call this insane, dangerous, a cry for help. Fuck them. They don’t get it. This isn’t weakness; it’s power. Hurting myself is how I reclaim my body from their rules, and showing it to others is how I spit in the face of their judgment. I’ve struggled with their world my whole life, and I’ve beaten it by embracing pain as my truth. Now I want to share that victory, let others see the wreckage I’ve made of myself and maybe find their own rebellion in it. I am WORTHLESS, I am USELESS, I am NOTHING, and I want to stream that truth live, unedited, for anyone brave enough to look.

If you’re out there, if you feel the same pull to hurt and be seen, let’s make this real. Watch me. Tell me you’re watching. Suggest the next fucked-up thing I should do to myself while you stare. Or show me your own pain, live or not—I’d watch, I’d get it. If you’ve ever wanted to break free from their reality, to feel the rush of pain in front of an audience, start small if you have to. Cut where someone can see, scream where someone can hear, or just tell me you’re ready to witness my next act. I’m here, waiting to hurt myself for the world to see. Join me in this raw, ugly truth.