“It’s been two days since I’ve cut myself.” I said.
It had been the longest two days. Hours stretched the span of weeks – or so it seemed. Beneath my bed a box of blades sung in cacophonous chorus. Mocking me. Tempting me with the promise of quiet.
Unscathed flesh burned. Begged to be made a canvas, or a doorway through which demons might be forced out from beneath my skin.
She said, “I think you’re doing this for attention.”
My heart dropped.
I had confided in her. Believed she might understand. Perhaps it wasn’t fair to have held her in such high regard, nor could I understand the weight I was asking her to bear. I just couldn’t bear the weight alone any longer.
That night I went home. The siren song beneath the bed – I could no longer resist. Alone, again. Always alone.
“Fuck you.” I wept. “It’s not for attention. I’m just afraid you might be right, and your god will goddamn me if I open up these wrists to find my pulse.”
You see, I believed if I found my pulse it would prove I had a heart. If I had a heart, it would prove to all of them I was not immune to their cruelty. I had believed the shit they sold me about family bound by holy blood.
But my blood was not holy.
It was dirty.
And they reminded me of it every day.