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.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s