Why?

Darkness pools beside me,
Hiding the scars along my thighs,
along my neck,
along my wrists.
I trace the face of the razor along my stomach, thinking.

Thoughts bounce back
to the bad days,
edging up closer and closer until
they're touching my cheek.
I suck in my air,
hold it,
hold it,
and pretend there's no 
hands on my wrists
on my wrists
holding on
and making paper
bruises;
purpleblueblack.

They clench down and trap me,
so I swipe at them with my little
metal friend.
They move up to my leg,
sliding up my thigh
to places
WHERE NO HANDS SHOULD BE.
I dig in deep
and get the poison out
so it's clean cuts
and I'm fine. 


It's not about the cuts
themselves.
It's not about the blood.
It's about the pain that swallows up
the dirt in all the mud.

Which leaves me with clean water
to drink for just a day.
But it won't last forever,
so it becomes a game. 


Today you drink and breathe,
tomorrow, you have a choice.
Leave your legs clean,
or banish that stupid voice.