there are girls with red panels down their arms as if they have been bolted with puncturing plastic, as if they are robots who whine in binary code.
"if you have scratched yourself a few times, you have not cut" and she lived in a shed, floorboards pressed to her cheek, nuts and bolts in her ****** hallows, pumped with drugs for a white throat.
she should know. i do not deserve to feel free. i should have never pushed my razors under paper wads in my trashcan. i should have kept them and drag silver over my skin for shaving, leave me ready for the next boy with rose hair and wide, chlorined smile eyes.
there are girls who do not romanticize romantic illness, like depression isn't a rose in a jar in your throat, black and bottle borne and biting at the flesh, but never talk about recovery. "it's good," i am about to say, but i do not know what it is like to bleed out my body, spoon out my insides and throw them away, shudder at lit streetlights and let tears slink towards bathroom tiles.
i hurt myself twice and this happened. i do not wish to be part of a community, but i did this to myself and i can't deny it.