15 March 2013
It's late. I'm so incredibly exhausted- running on peppermint mocha and green tea. I can not rest. My mind does not have an off switch.
And so I unlock my pretty jewelry box and take out my addiction. My savior and my muse- a little scrap of metal that has had such controversial effects over the years. I creep on the chilly hardwoods to the third floor, I light a candle and play music softly. Bon Iver seeps into my skin and the moonlight mingles with the street lamps. The house is still and my insides are hollow. You told me not to do this, but I no longer care what you have to say, or anyone else for that matter. This is what I need. Only this.
I carve words with short precise lines- the dull stainless steel leaving innocent nicks. Tiny slices that sting and well up in the smallest of droplets. Weak. Innocent. Not inflicted out of emotional pain, but instead out of longing for peace of mind. For control. Slowly I scrape the words along my hip. Patient, fine, balanced, kind. Shallow, so painfully shallow. I crave much more but I know this reminder is all that I need. These four simple words I desperately need to remember. They will heal shortly, and won't leave any remnants of tonight. But now they are what I need. Just a piece of hope to cling to. A reminder that I am capable- if not always willing- of all of these things.
On my left hip I paint more lines with the blade. Three short superficial scratches. Exactly parallel. One for every month you stayed. Because I know there will not be another. I question your motives for starting this, and I still wonder why you are here. I know those questions will not be answered tonight, and I may never know for certain. Normally I would be bothered by this, but the numbness does not allow room for emotions tonight. None at all. My face is straight. No twisted smiles, no tears. No grieving for the butterflies that were never inked onto my skin. Just peace. I tape up my skin, lock the blade back up safe and sound, and enjoy the sweetness of the silence.
Relapse Blog • Opuss № I