I am dreaming dark dreams.
Of sawing into my legs with a serrated edge,
and letting blood run out, red and hot.
My wife hid the knives.
Like I’m a child,
not to be trusted with sharp objects.
She’s not wrong though.
I am not to be trusted with them.
For I am addicted to self harm.
It is my heroin. My methamphetamine.
And the temptation is too great.
The stressors are too strong.
So I will write instead,
and hope that out there somewhere,
someone is listening.
Maybe they struggle with this too.
Or maybe they know someone who does.
Or maybe they just care.
Because this is a lonely illness.
One full of sorrow and isolation.
So I always hope for one simple thing.
That someone, anyone, is listening.