For days, months, perhaps it's already been years and you just didn't know that there's actually a word for it: you've been doing self-harm.
It always starts small — like not doing laundry. Or telling yourself, "I'm going to trim my fingernails later," but instead, you were binge-watching Tarot readings for the month of January, and falling asleep after a row of videos because you just felt tired.
Then, it slowly grows bigger. You wake up suddenly feeling a huge weight on your shoulders and your heart feels just as big, except it isn't the kind that could be held vacant for the whole world. It is heavy and rock solid and makes you sink.
You start feeling heavy, too, so you anchor yourself in your bed. You lie at the center of the mattress, so you don't fall. You're afraid you couldn't pick yourself up once it happens. And you search for your phone, under the covers, near the pillows. Here's another reading.
You closed an application to open another one. Today, you learned how to cook pepperoni pizza, why Iran should be protected from U.S militarization and the rest of the world, why it takes only a few seconds to make a man fall in love with you.
Once again, you felt tired while watching so you drift to slumber.
Waking up, it's already nighttime. You realized you've forgotten to eat the whole day, as well as the fact that you're supposed to feel well today because your Tarot said so. You easily forget to feel these days.
Slowly, you went down your bed, downstairs, where your Mother is screaming. This is also when you realize your growing heart had cracked your ribs, and had pierced your skin wide open.
Lazy.
Good for nothing.
You can't even fix your hair and talk to us like a normal person.
She wanted you to wash the dishes. Shaking, you didn't know if it was due to hunger or how she had managed to stretch the gaping cut in your chest all too quickly. But you were quicker.
You've figured endurance will make her go quiet, so you decide to do the dishes. She calmed down, laughed at the TV sitcom she's watching with your brother in the living room after.
You remember the dirty clothes, your eyes transfixed to the blurry picture of soiled fingernails in front of you.
The next day, you did the laundry, painted your nails a bright orange. Your mother said it looked good on you and you should try to prep more.
You checked your invisible scars, told her,
I am trying, Ma.
Another day passed and you wake up once again with the same sinking feeling.
You tell yourself, I am still trying.
