Dear no name

I wondered how long it would take,
for someone to notice.
The harsh, swollen red lines
peek out from beneath my shorts.
They threatened to tell the truth
I dare not speak.

I called you a snitch.
You “ratted me out”,
to the counsellor.
But really, you forced me to talk.
Talk about how bad things were getting again.
How sad I really was.

I resented you for weeks.
Weeks of embarrassingly,
being called out of class.
I had gotten so used to the phone ringing,
I would leave class
before the teacher even talked to me.
The “walk of shame” down the stairs to the office,
made me feel, defeated.

After multiple appointments a week,
for a few months,
I promised myself I would stay clean,
for as long as I possibly could.
That was right before I broke,
and brought my blades back out again.

Reviews

[Iain L. Luen]

Keep writing--forever. Sometimes, the best way to understand yourself is to explain yourself to others, even if it's a letter you never send.