I hold the knife in my hand,
And I want it to shake.
I want to be scared about what I’m about to do.
But I’m not scared.
Is this a bad thing?
I need to know that it’s really me inside.
I need to prove myself to reality.
Footsteps towards the kitchen,
I must hide the knife.
The footsteps disappear after an awkward conversation.
But my heart rate increases.
But the knife returns.
I become increasingly angry at myself due to my inability to draw blood.
If I can’t even hurt myself properly, what am I here for?
I sigh in relief
At the sight of blood,
Before my imagination concots the idea of pain in my arm.
But it’s not pain.
What if someone sees the diagonal slash across my arm that I will now refer to as ‘The First Scar’?
The red dot grows as I begin to realise;
I need to get away from the knife.