Cutting
I used to cut myself.
And sometimes, I wouldn’t cut deep enough, so I would keep digging the tweezers
deeper and deeper into my skin, with such a feeling of unsatisfaction, until I saw red, that is.
I have never loved a color so much. The red, the red blood was beautiful.
It signified that I was okay. I felt okay. I felt no pain.
I didn’t remember you anymore.
I liked not remembering you.
I liked not remembering the hurt.
I liked being numb.
I liked escaping from my reality, if even only escaping it for a little while.
I think about cutting again.
And sometimes, I take the tweezers, put them up against my skin, and attempt to start digging.
But then I stop.
I have no idea why I stop.
(2013)
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