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I hurt myself for a while as a teenager. I stole those expensive pencil sharpeners from the art room's supply closet, took them apart just enough until the razor would fall out. It was fine, I was secretive. I didn't exploit it. It wasn't a cry for help, it was just a kid being dumb. I figured that's what sad people did, and it felt like I needed to fit the bill. The stigma was easy to get lost in. 

Here I am, five years later, stealing box cutter refills from work for personal use. Here I am, holding my breath as I roll over in bed, because my cuts have curdled and dried and stuck to the inside of my lounge pants. Here I am, ill-prepared, licking my finger and running it along to catch all the growing beads of blood. 

Have I conditioned myself, somehow? Am I Pavlov's drooling dog? 

Woof woof. My hands are sticky. 

Here I am.

Here I am, still lost in it.