(Please note this poem is about self-harm, if you are at all sensitive to it, please don't read)
I remember the first time I held a knife to my wrist.
I couldn't have been more than 6 or 7.
Young enough that I shouldn’t have been doing that.
Young enough that my problems were too small for that.
But they washed over me like a babe before the sea
They tumbled me and turned me upside down
And I didn’t know the way out.
No one knew the way in either.
I remember that night when I was 15.
Many knives had been held between the first time and 15.
I remember how words,
Just simple words,
Had caused me to sit down
Sit down and write a note.
I opened the bottle.
The phone rang.
My problems were still not the problems of majority.
They were not large unscaleable mountains
But I had small hands and feet.
No guide to show me.
I was once again drowning.
And I remember the last time.
The smell of my own flesh burning
The shapes carved there
Red badges demonstrating to the world I was broken
That at 17 I couldn’t fight my battle
I was a matador crippled by some unknown force.
Facing the horns of a bull with no name and no shape.
It felt too good.
Felt too whole.
Felt too honest.
I vowed never again.
Never again because I knew if I ever tried again
If I ever took that second step into the darkness
I’d never look back.
I’d find myself too far down that path
Or maybe I’d fall into that darkness.
Not a single scar remains.
No scratch upon this neon skin of mine.
But sometimes I wish there was.
Wish there was something to show the mountains I climbed.
The bears and tigers and bulls I fought.
But there is nothing.
Nothing but a head full of ideas
And a heart still completely locked.