Old routine was getting
boring:
the scissors; they took too much effort
and the cuts weren't near clean enough.
Sewing needles? Not enough damage.
I needed something new.
I fought with my razor,
cutting at the plastic encasing the blade.
It splintered;
shards of white and green littering my bed.
I didn't give up; I had to get it out.
Unprepared and a novice,
I didn't just have packs of blades lying around
as some do;
this was my only option and eventually it paid
off.
There I sat,
with the cold steel between my fingers.
Upper arm was the carefully chosen location;
easy to hide beneath a t-shirt
with no need for suspicious long sleeves.
I pressed the blade against the flesh,
digging in deep and running it across.
Blood came to the surface immediately;
the skin split like I'd used a scalpel,
reminiscent of a scene from a medical drama.
The crimson pooled and ran like rainwater
down the side of my arm, dripping onto my sheets.
Not an expert when it came to anatomy,
I didn't know what I'd done.
Were there veins up there to hit?
Was I going to bleed out?
How would I stop it?
Tissue wasn't working; I'd gone through a
roll already.
The white towel was already stained red
and the wound wasn't scabbing over.
Tears lined my eyes and I began to panic.
What was my dad going to think?
My secret was surely going to be revealed
whether I lived to tell the tale or not.
The blood just wouldn't stop and I was
terrified.
Through familiarity with other methods,
I hadn't realized I needn't press on so
hard.
I lay down.
I cried,
I bled,
I fell asleep.
In the morning I awoke;
the scare was over,
but years later I'm left with an unexplainable
scar,
that is different to the rest.
