and as much as i hate admitting it after being clean for more than two years, i do miss it. i do miss the stinging. i miss holding onto the blade. i miss seeing the lines on my hands. i hate how i'd be questioned when it'll scar my arm so i'd do my best to hide the evidence and slit the palm of my hand instead. i do think about it every now and then;
how i miss slowly cutting myself.
how i miss seeing blood trickling down my hands, dropping on the white tiles of the bathroom i'd hide myself in.
and i hate how it felt comforting for me. like for a short amount of time, the ache in my chest disappeared and a different kind of hurt emerged, something more bearable than an empty feeling in your chest. it became my comfort. or when i did something wrong and the guilt would eat me alive and i'd allow myself to wallow in the hurt and punish myself for hurting other people that didn't deserve it. or when the anxiety and the depression came crawling back and i needed something to make me feel alive, to make me feel anything at all other than the anxiety welling up inside me. i desperately wanted anything—anything—to make me feel something that i held onto it for so long.
a comfort. a punishment. a reliever.
sometimes, i wish i could do it; a never ending relapse of wanting it but hating it. but i'm no longer that person anymore.
sometimes, i wish i still do it.
and i know it's okay to miss it and not do it again.
sometimes, i wish i still do.
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letters after dark | poetry book 3
Poetrya collection of poems and proses of thoughts that fill up the void after dark. #1 in proses #7 poetry #56 in poem #5 poetrycollection book 3 of the poetic flowers series. other books : • a hurricane of blues • confessions i will never say and other...
