relapse.

Written on

(TW: Self harm)



When my nails rake over my thighs with masterful strokes of familiarity, leaving my lulled, curious mind to wonder, to anticipate, to count seconds until my skin turns pink, until the pink slowly bleeds into a slight red trickle, until the warm water pouring is too scalding for this sort of a thing, the tears finally stop. I will later reflect on how strange it is to stop the poison by administering more of it, but now I just take a deep breath and claw my way out of the bathroom, latching the door with a harsh screech. But my eyes, gleaming with satisfaction in the mirror, tell a different story. My shaking fingers hate myself, but I know I would do it again. Then the purple devious grin in the mirror dissipates, revealing a stark, bruised patch of skin. It’s gonna sting later, I taunt myself. Trim your nails, you fool.


Photo by Lisa from Pexels


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