No matter how deep I go, I can’t cut it out. I was fighting against the red, but as it slowly faded into black, I caught a glimpse of the truth.
I’ve spent so many years living on a razors edge that I stopped fearing sharp objects altogether. No, maybe I was never afraid in the first place. A cut is just a cut.
It only hurts for a moment.
It only bleeds for a moment.
It will sting in the shower for a day or two.
It will form a scab overnight.
And, in a months time, only a faded red line will remain.
By the end of the year, that line will have started to turn pink. Another year, another shade lighter. 20 years later and you’d need a decently bright light to find those first few lines.
20 years, huh? I’ve been doing this for 20 years? Is that a long time? I have no idea if that’s a long time. That’s a crazy amount of time though, right? If I stop to think about it, it really is pure insanity.
I’ve never gone from one birthday to the next without making a new cut.
I’ve never opened presents under the Christmas tree without seeing the scars I carved into my body by choice.
I graduated from high school and college during the month of June, and on both occasions I was worried my robes wouldn’t be long enough to cover my arms past the elbow, so I wore a long-sleeved shirt to be safe.
I can’t remember anybody embracing my body before I ruined it… I know I was hugged before these scars though… pictures all over my parents home show a round, smiling kid being held and hugged and kissed by so many different people… and I can’t remember any of it…
I feel like I stole something from all those people. I did, didn’t I? I stole that child from them…
I wish I could give it all back to them. I wish I could reverse time and stop myself from making that first cut.
But I also can’t remember that first cut… so I guess I never could have escaped this fate, right? Am I right?
Can’t somebody, please… just tell me I’m right…