Living With Myself

Bleeding

The sharp thin corner of the broken glass is the only thing i can control. 

It is under my power, it will do as i say. I decide how deep, how often and how many.

The scars that cover me are the only part of my life i had any say over. The thin ones, the wide ones, the raised ropey ones, the straight ones, the jagged ones, the lone ones, the clumped ones that intersect over one another. They are all mine.

Etched into my skin like braile, they tell the story of my loss and my pain. 

Mine. They are where i have the power. 

I let the glass hover over my skin, life or death? My decision. I press the edge into my skin, holding it at an angle so the cut is a clean line. I push it down ito the flesh and take a breath. In on quick swipe i draw it down my arm towards the floor. It is done.

The skin has parted and for a few seconds i can see the white fat and tissues under my skin before the blood appears in little spots, welling up and flooding the wound. It rises until like a cup too full it spills over the edges. It drips down my arm, covering the rose tattoo on my wrist. 

I guide the glass to my arm again and repeat the process. I decide to do it again. And again. 

I decide after the twentieth cut that it will suffice for today. My decision. Mine. 

I feel nothing. I am numb. My emotions are gone, retreated somewhere deep inside me where i can not feel them anymore. 

I made the decision to bleed, i had all the power and with it i chased away the demons of my soul.

I have won. For now.

Disclaimer** This piece of writing reflects my thoughts at the time of writing, but it is important to remember it is a reflection of my struggle with Mental Illness. I am in no way romanticizing, condoning, or encouraging self-harming. It is a dangerous act, and should not be taken lightly.