It’s getting bad again.
My skin is scratching, itching, burning.
I want to rake my nails down my wrist
just to relieve a little pressure.

It’s building up inside me.
I’m afraid that I’ll explode
and imbed shrapnel in those
who are closest to me.

I shy away
and leave myself alone.
Better to suffer in silence
than to make others worry.

I want to press a blade
deep into my hips.
To feel the blood bubbling up
and all my pressure-pain-panic
leaving with
each drop that flows down my thigh.

Just like old times.