Cut

An inner monologue on self harm

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My skin is pale, like fresh snow.

 

I think what that would feel like, I have known people who have done such things but I have never known why.  I haven’t given it that much thought I suppose.

 

Now I can’t help but think of that.

 

What it would feel like.

 

Would it hurt?

 

But how could anything hurt more than the way I feel right now anyway?

 

I am hideous, ugly, annoying, alone.  I will always be alone.

 

I want to hurt as much on the outside as I do within.

 

I pick up the small manicure scissors and the light is reflected softly against the blade.

 

Slowly and deliberately I press the blade into soft, pale flesh, it hurts a little, but not as much as I expect.

 

I draw the blade against my skin harder and harder, the metal is quite cool.

 

I scrunch my eyes tightly to squeeze out the tears which refuse to flow.

 

I breathe in sharply, it is starting to hurt, but perversely I like it.

 

I feel a warm trickling down my arm, if I didn’t hurt so much I might laugh.

 

A moment later I feel calmer.  More peaceful.

 

Robotically I go to the bathroom and get some toilet paper and push it against the blood flow, taking care not to get any blood on my clothes or the floor.

 

 

The next day you, my mother, ask me where the scar comes from.

 

I feign surprise, look at the cut.  I know all to well where it came from but pretend to be ignorant.

 

I suggest that I perhaps scratched myself in my sleep.

 

I make a note to come up with a more plausible excuse for next time.

Reviews

[Paza]

I used to be in this place. No one ever asked me about the cuts. I think my mom was afraid of the answers. It was a dark, lonely time in my life and this poem brings a lot of that back. Luckily, my story had a happy ending, but so many do not. Nice job dealing with a topic not too many people are willing to talk about.