Cutting.
“Or when that patch of skin is ruined.”
Cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
Cutting.
So I kick my pants off, eager to make more lines. Line after line. Shame after shame. Running away from memories I’ll never be able to escape when what’s brokenisme. Not my body or something physical. The very thing that makes me has been destroyed so deeply I’ll never be able to alter it.
But.
I.
Keep.
Cutting.
Needing to bleed it all away.
Searching for every bit of pain being pressed deep into my bones so I can remove it.
Yet it’s not there. It doesn’t exist, like a phantom I can feel attaching itself to me while everyone stares at the crazy man screaming.
More cuts—deeper, longer, wider—don’t reveal it.
Not when my blood drips over the side of my thighs to collect in small pools on the tile.
Or when the warmth slowly flowing over my inflamed skin burns.
No, I need more pain.
Specifically, my own pain to replace everything else.
This is in my control.
This is my choice.
Every mark, every drop of blood is caused by my own hand. But I don’t want to reclaim my body that will never feel like my own when it’s been invaded, trampled, their sickening flags planted into my marrow.
I continue as I control the length, the depth, the site of each cut.
As my vision blurs, I’m struck by the horrifying realization I don’t have control. I’ve officially become indebted to the act.
Because.
I.
Keep.
Fucking.
Cutting.
Fearful of stopping.
