I miss it more than I want to admit-
I miss the cold edges against my heated skin
miss the sharp sting
the flow of blood as it drips to the floor
the feeling of rough fabric against the open wounds
But what I really miss is the release
the release of anxiety,
slipping through my skin like it's embedded into my blood
That feeling of calm-
the moment right after the cut,
were I can finally relax, breathe-
when I finally stop wanting to kill myself
YOU ARE READING
Trauma Bonding
PoesíaSometimes we all just need a safe place to share our stories TW: Talk of self-harm, suicide, and sexual assault
