Afterwards

One time I dug metal into my skin because I was sad.

You know, usually when
people are sad they cry and cry and cry.
But see, I was sad and I didn't cry. I didn't shed a tear.

Instead I stared as white and then red was ingrained into my skin, and I wore a blank face and I had a blank mind.
And everything that was smooth grew rougher, and I felt my brain fail to grow tougher.

And then I counted the stripes I had made to bear my strength and remove the weakness, and I realized that nothing changed.

See I didn't get stronger, and my sadness remained.

Why?

Well I knew I was wrong to do what I had done and yet I did it.

I didn't even remember why I was sad in the first place, just how I felt afterwards.

See that's a funny thing, the afterwards.
I expected it to be distracting, and it was, but not in the way I thought it would be.

It didn't matter.

I continued and I lost count, and I kept on carving and carving my own battle wounds.

Eventually my mother discovered what I'd been hiding under my sleeves, so I told myself:
"Retire, soldier."

So I did, and I haven't sculpted since.

But as I said before, the afterwards is a funny thing.

One time I dug metal into my skin because I was sad,

And afterwards I felt the same.