ink is a way for me to bleed instead of carving a blade into my skin, but i itch for that adrenaline racing through my hands. shaking from the cold touch from a sharp tip, pushing and pressing. cutting for seconds, but the seconds turns into minutes. these thoughts haunts my every day attempt to feel calm and sane, still my addition will remain. i am so proud of myself that i haven’t cut my arms since… whenever that day was. i do not contain a memory of it. i’ll admit to myself, i do miss looking down and seeing lines all over me, i miss the view so much that i fell in love with it. i thought i was a form of art, i could be displayed in a gallery. today, the urge crawled out of my throat but i managed to swallow it back down into the pit of my stomach. i know i’m okay. i know i’m better. i know i’m growing. it’s okay to crack open once in awhile to find light again, and it will fill me to the bone. i’m right where i belong and here’s next to my lover. every day is a new day. i wish you were here, i’d hug you and tell you that i’m doing much better.