I pressed my pen to the paper,

realizing it could cut deeper than any blade,

and the words flowed faster and thicker with emotion,

faster and thicker than blood ever could from my wrist

Every syllable was another breath

carrying me away from self-mutilation

I learned eloquence through suffering—

practice makes perfect

My scars have faded,

but the memory of lying on the bathroom floor,

too weak to take my own life,

it will never go away

I fold that memory up,

hide it behind the paintings of my good days,

and when I think I’m slipping into the darkness,

I grip my pencil neck rope so tightly

I can hardly tell where the lead ends and my bones begin