It had been three weeks
Since my last encounter with the blade,
But when I awoke this morning
With a dull ache in my chest
And a pit in the bottom on my stomach,
I ran for it.

Still foggy with sleep,
I took the knife in my hands,
Traced it along my skin
Until I found the perfect spot
Two inches below my hip,
Just begging to be torn into.

One cut,
Two cuts,
Then three.
I stopped after that,
Feeling disoriented
But relieved
As the blood flowed to the surface
And dripped down my leg.

The sight comforted me
In a way that no hug,
No heart-to-heart,
No reassuring words ever could.
That should've scared me, I suppose,
But it didn't.
I didn't even flinch.