I haven’t thought about cutting myself in a very long time. The act of actually doing it, I mean. I’ve thought about how I used to cut myself, of course, but I’ve not had the urge to do so for years.
I have it now though. I look at the knife as I wash it. I feel the smooth edge of it with the soapy cloth. I hold it to my arm. I can feel it slice; in my mind I can feel it. I hear it calling to me. I want to feel it. I want to see the blood fill the thin line of the wound. I want the release that comes with it.
I woke from a dream this morning and it’s haunting me. I can’t shake it. I can’t shake the look on his face as he stares at me. And I can’t shake the words she said. “Don’t talk about it. It’s over.” But is it? Will it ever be over in my head? Will he always touch me? Will she always pretend it didn’t happen? Will she? Will I?
We had steak for dinner. I looked at the knife on my plate as I ate with my family. I felt it on my arm, at least in my head, I did. I had to leave the table.
I feel like I can’t hold it together right now but I know it will pass. Just as the images in my head from the dream will pass. It’ll all be ok. Until the next time.