I did it again.
I broke my will.
With a broken razor and fallen blades.
Tools to cut leg hair made into small knifes.
Cutting into skin again and again.
Until the blood stops to pool and starts to drip into a river.
Watch it flow, hold a tissue so as not to ruin the rug.
Stained tissue, bright red.
Next to pink skin surrounding puffed, red, marks.
Wipe it up and clean it up.
Make it so I don’t have to go to the Doctor.
Infection, such a needy *****.
All done, but don’t pull out bandaids.
The wrappers will yell the story to mom.
Mom will tell dad, and together they will offer support.
Support from family members who don’t understand.
Who are sad when I need ice to control my urges.
Why would I let them know that it didn’t work?
That in the pretend safety of the bathroom, I went from diving to cutting.
In just a few seconds.