She pulls up her legs to her chest and her hair falls in front, covering her bare legs. She sits, rocking slightly, on her bed. With tearstained eyes, she looks around and her gaze falls upon the box. Her box. It sits on top of her dresser. Funny, it looked to her like a little picture of her innocence. It’s wooden with a flip lid. It’s decorated with swirling patterns of flowers and butterflies. But it’s not what’s on the box that matters. No, it’s what is inside the box that counts. Her ticket to freedom. Without even thinking, she speaks:
‘She paints a pretty picture,
But that picture has a twist.
She paints it with a razor,
She paints in on her wrist.’
And with that, the girl grabs the box and runs out the room.
In the bathroom, she’s pacing. Angry tears fall, wetting the bathroom tiles. The house is silent, apart from the blaring TV that provides a small sliver of sound. Her tired legs give up, and she crumples to the floor. Her hands slide through the bathroom rug, her eager fingers feeling the texture and the tenderness. She lies down and lays her head down, her hair splayed out around her.
The tap leaks, the drops smacking against the basin, before trickling down the plughole. The girls head lifts slightly at the noise. The wind rustles the wooden blinds. Every sound becomes louder and more intense; every colour becomes stronger and more pronounced. She blinks as the shadows come down on her, sweeping past and reaching out with their long hands. She lets them caress her as she tumbles into a dreamless sleep.
A crash jolts her out of her daydreams. It is the painted box. It has fallen off the table where the girl had left it, pushed by a gust of wind. The flip lid has opened and some paint has chipped off the whimsical swirling flowers. The bathroom lights reflect off the silver, casting flickering lights on the whitewashed walls. She reaches out, feeling for it. Her fingers meet the cool silver blades and she recoils quickly. The blade sliced through her finger and a drop of blood oozed out. Her horror is replaced by want, by need, by addiction. She grabs the razor hungrily and brings it to her body. She pulls down her frayed shorts and pinches her skin by her legs, but soon realises otherwise.
‘That’s where she’ll check,’ the girl muses, before pulling up her tatty shorts. In a moment of desperation, she grabs her stomach. The flab and fat gives her something to hold, and while she cries, she brings the razor down on her skin and cuts. Again. As she cries, she whispered the word, a terrible word. A word that brings shame upon her, a word that condemns her.
Relapse.
YOU ARE READING
Scarlet Tears: A collection of poems, stories and quotes about self harm
PoetryA book of poetry aimed at people who have or are struggling with the addiction of self injury. These are poems highlighting the growing problems of self harm. It isn't judging, though, and doesn't insist that the person suffering MUST stop or MUST r...
