It had been three weeks Since my last encounter with the blade, But when I awoke this morning With a dull ache in my chest And a pit in the bottom on my stomach, I ran for it.
Still foggy with sleep, I took the knife in my hands, Traced it along my skin Until I found the perfect spot Two inches below my hip, Just begging to be torn into.
One cut, Two cuts, Then three. I stopped after that, Feeling disoriented But relieved As the blood flowed to the surface And dripped down my leg.
The sight comforted me In a way that no hug, No heart-to-heart, No reassuring words ever could. That should've scared me, I suppose, But it didn't. I didn't even flinch.