That One Time I Reached Out

enlight231“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.

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