Poetry (or Whatever This is)

Fifteen.

OKAY SO HUGE TRIGGER WARNING FOR SELF HARM PLEASE PLEASE BE CAREFUL <3

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You stand in the hot shower, the blade you removed from a sharpener in hand. You tell yourself "Just one more, then i'll stop."

One turns into seven, turns into eight. It's got to be even. Eight turns to ten, you've come this far it may as well be a nice, round number. Ten becomes fifteen, fifteen is a much better number than ten. It reminds you of the age you first started this.

You stop counting, and focus on the water changing to red. It's pretty. Your favourite part. The sting is what drives most people towards it, but you have mixed feelings. You don't like pain very much. It reminds you too much of why you started in the first place.

And then it sinks in. You watch as the evidence washes away, strolling down your leg and into the drain. No one will believe you're hurt if they can't see a wound. So you hope and pray that this is it. All of your suffering gone on a journey through the pipes with stray hairs and shampoo bubbles. This has to be it over. But it never is.

A cut becomes a scab becomes a scar becomes a reminder. A reminder of how weak you were on that day. A reminder of the fifteen cuts on your thigh. The fifteen years of your life that led to the first time you did this. The first time that led to second time that led to the fifteenth time that led to this.

Because once you start, it's never just one more.

A/N: Please feel free to reach out if you need someone to talk to. Stay safe <3

~ S :)