By Valerie Massa
There are thousands of ways to hurt, to feel, to die. But the knife, the razor; oh man, that sharp blade. Sends shivers down my spine. You can carve, and I do, however deep you want. Sometimes it’s only a little; just enough to take the edge off. Then, though, you might go so deep, so deep that you can’t even feel anymore. Can’t feel yourself. Lost in your own skin; lost for someone else to find, to know, to save. You look down through a layer of tears and realize there’s blood streaming down your arm. It collects in a small pool on the floor, soaking into the rug like a wounded animal. You feel dizzy, exhilarated, near the edge. You step close, ready to jump off, but you take a step back so you can do it again.
My skin screams at me through the angry, red gash that makes up its mouth. Band-Aids are forever my savior; covering my scars so I don’t have to face them. Stifling their screams so I don’t have to hear them. Begging, pleading. They say things to me; Make me eyes and ears so I can see right through you, hear your every thought. Make me a nose so I can smell your fear; that metallic red. I tell them to get out, to go. But they have stayed with me from the beginning. Running up my arms, they are like sleeves, protecting me from myself. How much deeper will I plunge next time? I make more cracks in myself to fall through. Penetrating into the depths of my soul, my veins, my blood. I spill my secrets, rid myself of their evils. I wipe away the sin, the regret, the tears, until I am pure, free, nothing. I am nothing, Nothing but an ant in the world. Small, insignificant, trying; trying not to get stepped on. Will I make it today? Life is unpredictable. I know nothing. I fear nothing because I’ve been through it all. I have faced the world and it has shut me down, turned me out. Yet I cannot face myself, what I’ve done, who I am. Who am I? I am a cutter.