My body is resting, but I am not. 

My brain is awake, and my heart is cracking.

The anger courses through my veins quickly.

I want to bash my head in. 

My hands smash against the granite countertop of the bathroom sink.

My shaky hands run over my face, smearing the tears I’ve missed.

I start breathing heavily and loudly, unable to control my own breath. 

My hands start pulling at my hair.

Finally, my hands slam against the sink countertop again, and I fall.

I cry and cry and cry and cry and cry. 

My body slumps against the tiled floor. My heart has already been buried in a deep

place. 

My head spirals out of control. 

The manic hands rip the phone case off, watching as the little blade from a sharpener

falls to the floor. 

I pick the blade up.

I push it deep into the skin of my thigh, but then I hesitate. 

I lose a month of sobriety- tears fall harder than ever. 

Not because of losing a month but because I hesitated.

I lose my grasp on the sliver thing in my hand. 

I finally push it in deeper once I get a grip. 

I push and push and push and push and fucking push.

It cuts my heart into slices. 

But it’s not enough.

I did it three more times.

They hadn’t been big enough or enough in general, but the blade was put down. 

I didn’t have anything else to lose.

I’d already felt better than ever. 

I could do it and not feel guilty. 

The realization hit me. I DIDN’T HAVE ANYTHING TO LOSE.

Relapsing was the best thing that ever happened.

(But had it been?)