i sew. i own a pair of thread cutters, tiny scissor blades on an ergonomic handle. it's very easy to cut thread, paper, tape, whatever you need to trim down from tailoring.

last month i took the cap off of my tool and stabbed myself in the forearm. it sounds worse than it is. or maybe it sounds just as bad as it is, and my radar for what is normal is off-kilter from years of slicing back and forth across my skin. i had done it a few times before, and told myself that it was shallow, and did not draw blood, so it didn't count as self-harm. i'm not usually this willfully ignorant, i swear.

i heard a pop as the points dug in. it terrified me. i had looked away as i plunged my hand down so i wouldn't hold back on the pain. i wasn't looking, and pushed far deeper far closer to the blue stream of blood vessel millimeters from the surface.

there was a terrible split-second where i thought i had just killed myself by mistake. everything went white, and flashed in technicolour, and the beat of my heart raced to stratosphere and drowned out the neverending buzz of electricity until i could hear, see, think of nothing but blood blood blood.

but i was wrong. i popped my skin, but the vein was untouched. i got lucky. it barely bled, but the bruise flowered about two inches around the twin punctures and didn't fade for a fortnight. blue, purple, brown, yellow, gone. the punctures are still pink and raised, but they are small and easy to hide amongst the constellation moles across my body.

i can feel the tunnel of the wound between my fingers, underneath the skin, where it hasn't fully healed. i roll it around in my fingertips like the scar of my umbilical cord, but i can't place what it connects me to. a better poet would make a metaphor of it, but i am not a poet. i am a self destructive, impulsive, stupid girl that pours her sorrows onto a ****** laptop keyboard in an attempt to make it beautiful, because if it's beautiful it's not just pathetic.

i asked my girlfriend to take the thread cutters, to keep them with her until i felt okay enough to have them around again. she didn't ask questions and i thought of marrying her for it. i told myself enough was enough and this time i was walking away from the rage and wasn't coming back.

i meant it. i really did. last monday i scratched myself with a seam ripper over and over until my vision cleared. the reason i tell myself is that physical injury snaps my brain out of hysteria and forces me to take care of myself. it doesn't work anymore. i just hate myself more for reaching out to metal like a child instead of solving my problems. i didn't tell my girlfriend about this. i know she saw, i know she knows, but she does not ask questions, and i love her for that. answering would make us both feel worse. but she holds me, and makes me tea, and listens to podcasts she doesn't care about so i can fall asleep. at this rate i won't have any ****** sewing supplies left.

in the dark she heard me crying. felt it more than anything. i can cry in complete silence, but the stuttering of my chest under her hand gives the game away.

'what is it?' she asked me.

i waited. said nothing for a moment.

'it's been eight years,' i whispered, 'i'm scared i'll be like this for the rest of my life.'

'you won't be. you're the strongest person i know' she said.

'i don't care about strong. i just want to be happy.'

she whispered something into my hair, but i couldn't make out the words. she has things she is afraid of being for the rest of her life too, and as sick as it makes me, i'm glad we understand each other.

this is not a poem. it's a confession. everything is. i don't deal in fiction. i walked out of the church at sixteen and four years later I'm trapped in the booth with the voiceless father, spilling sin after sin and he opens his mouth but instead of absolution, viscous black pile drips from his lips. i've searched for god more times than i care to count, but he is determined to hide from me, so the answer must come from elsewhere.

i'm trying to get therapy. i decided years ago when grieving a friend i would never take my life, so if i am resigned to endure it i am determined to enjoy it. i'm bored of suffering. i want sunlight and happiness and a balcony with a view. i don't want to hurt myself. i want to be kind to her, because she is fragile. i'm working on it. sometimes i will fail, and that is okay. i write this down mouthing the letters as they go, convincing myself each one is true.

i will fail but it is okay because i am trying. i will recognise when i succeed. people love me and i love them too, and none of us deserve this. i am excited to look backwards one day and be glad i am no longer this version of myself. i'm excited to meet the next one. in the end, whenever that is, i will be okay.