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.