there is nothing poetic about the way i take up space

Counting the lines that trace my skin
Some red, some white,
Some deep, some light.
Each one a whisper:
I survived another night.

Sometimes,
I think they’re beautiful,
Other times,
I look at myself in disgust.
Maybe I should’ve never touched the blade.
Maybe I should’ve never learned
how quiet pain can be.  

The first one was nothing,
Just a scratch
“One small line won’t hurt,”
I said to myself
not knowing months later,
I still don't know what else will help