It doesn’t hurt anymore.
I remember rocking,
my right knee held tight in my slippery hands.
A pink and orange towel,
pressed against rough skin.
Self-hate never visited my home,
but that day she knocked on my door
and when I didn’t answer,
she broke the damn wood.
I stood in the shower,
staring at the metal blades
and the pounding on the glass
scarred me into shutting my eyes and cutting my thighs.
The water stung.
Blinding pain and the blood from the wound,
seemed so placid.
Once that cut started to numb,
“maybe this isn’t such a bad thing, I could even do it again.”
So I did,
I kept sawing myself open because no one seemed to care,
no one noticed the stash of band-aids in my front backpack pocket
or the face I made when the sweat from PE dripped into the gash.
The last time I cut myself,
I inspected it for the longest time before deciding,
I don’t need her in my life,
Self-hate is just one pawn in a much larger game.
I later found out,
Self-Hate had been lying to me.
Her real name was Self-Infliction, Self-Harm for short.
Sometimes I miss it, you know?
The tender flesh,
the peeling of the wound,
oh how I miss the blood.
At the time,
I didn’t have anyone to kiss away the pain.
A mere two years has past,
and though I may have felt in control, then.
Wreckage of my body did not make me feel any more raw than I already was.
Why did I do it?
It made me feel good.
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