The idea of a fat rain drop smacking my shoulder blade is
both wildly unsatisfying and
much sweeter than the slice of a blade across my forearm.
But in the real world
Raindrops don't bruise
don't damage
don't break the skin like my glistening friend can.
I never understood the sad girls,
thick, black eyeliner running down,
who cut.
Until now.
And maybe I haven't yet
Maybe I never will.
But the sting of the knife would be so much more tangible
Than the ache I feel
Every time
I think about how you aren't here.