I'm afraid that it's not just a habit* you confessed
that it had become a compulsion.
For when it all becomes too much
that thin blade and your skin become one

you were so embarrased to tell me
hated giving away your secrets even then
I was so uneasy--I'd already know for so long
those little white lines bespoke your troubled mind

Like I could miss it--your arms crisscrossed, a map of self-hurt
I came to know the signs- your frown, the twitching in your seat
the discomfort, the silence, you were already planning the when,
the where, the number of times, the sacrificial amount required for peace

you tried to hide it--just go over the same cut you explained
the scars make it harder, but it's less marks in the end.
You could be a surgeon with your skills, your steady hand
bleeding out the pain, the anger, the unhappiness you harbored

Now that you have left, are you still there in that dark room,
blade in hand, fighting back the tears and letting that pained joy fill you
as each crimson drop runs down your leg?