Metal

(Trigger warning: self-harm)

The paper towel was a crisp white.

Every little press that I pushed down in an effort to stop the blood was futile, it just kept coming. It dripped down my ankle in two little streams that stung hard. This is how it always happened, it was just me, myself, and my razor.

I suppose I didn't really need a reason at this point, other than I just felt the need. No matter how morbid that sounds, it's the god honest truth. Sometimes I had something to blame the cuts and blood for, but it was never enough to feel like it was justified. I needed to validate myself to earn the right to hate myself. The right to want to hurt myself, just to get a little fix. It was locked behind a wall of 'Oh, it's not that bad'.

And so I stopped reaching out. All I had ever been told by everyone I love is that they have it worse. Every friend that has ever told me they were there for me abandons me when I need them most. So why bother? It never ends well anyway.

The paper towel was dotted red.

I called her, that one time. When the bottle of Tylenol was on my bedroom floor, halfway across the room. Empty. My throat was itchy from throwing up, I had saved myself. Completely unintentional. She had always told me to call her, any time, day or night, if anything ever happened. So I did.

She was with a friend, so she couldn't be bothered. All she could muster up was, "Are you okay?" The second I croaked out a faint "Yes," she was off the line. That was the last time I ever tried to reach out for anyone, anything.

The paper towel was bright red.

Does anyone really need to know?

Does anyone want to know?

Do they care?

The paper towel was a dried brown.

I laid in my room, dark and cold. Nothing. I closed my eyes for a moment and focused on my ankle. I felt the sting. Do I want to feel this again? The pain, that is. And every memory that comes along with it. With my eyes still closed, I reached out and felt around for my razor. My hand knew where to go, I had been in this situation many times now.

I grasped it, and felt the metal. I ran it along my finger. I opened my eyes, and held it up so that the moon could reflect on it. The faint reflection on the cold, hard steel blinded me. I wondered then, could I see my reflection? I never could, no matter how many times I tried to get a glimpse. Would I like the person I saw reflected in that metal sliver? I'll never find out.

The paper towel was in my garbage bin.

Until next time.