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
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?)