Their Fault

She walks down the stairs with caution,
not wanting to have another useless talk,
towards the living room, lit with every light
as if they are afraid that darkness would destroy her.

She sits in the chair,
pulls her knees into her chest and wraps her
arms around, careful not to disturb the sleeping wounds
hidden beneath pink polka dot pajama pants.

“What was this doing in your room?”
In his hand, a bloodstained razor sparkles.
She says nothing as tears silently start to
leak out of her closed eyes.

What do you think, you idiot? That I just
keep it hidden to scare you and mom? Fucking dumb ass.
Thoughts are rushing through her mind and she wants so
bad to yell them out, to explode in a fury of bitterness.

Yet, she huddles in the corner of the chair and
tunes out her mother who repeats the same things
with different words, trying to break down the wall
in front of her daughters mind.

Her mother and father don’t understand that they are
the cause of her self-mutilation.
If they would just leave her alone she would
not have to escape with the swipe of a blade.

Trembling in the crevice where the arm meets
the cushion she shakes from the words her mother spits.
They ignite something in her mind and flames flare and rage in her head.
How hard is it to understand that I don't want to fucking live here!

“Why can’t you just leave me alone?!”
Her outburst takes them by surprise. Eyes widen with shock.
“You have no right to go through my room, that’s
my PERSONAL space. Would you like it if I did that to you?”

“It’s not YOUR room! You’re not paying rent to live
in it are you? Therefore I have every right to be in there.”
“It’s my personal space! An invasion of privacy, you controlling bitch!”
With those last words she storms up the stairs.

To her room she runs, slamming and locking the door
behind her raging body. To the radio she goes, turning up the
music so loud she feels the bass pound in her heart. Behind the
bookshelf she digs, grabs the extra razor they will never find.

She climbs on her bed, preparing herself for bloodshed by grabbing
the tissue box off of the desk. Her left arm extends,
forearm facing the ceiling. Her right hand shakes with
temptation before she digs the razor into her skin.

As the blood runs down her wrist, tears run
down her cheeks. With every cut, she loses less
and less control, letting the pain take over her body
until she is numb, if only for an instant.

She laughs bitterly to herself. She has gone against them
again. Fifty feet away, they have no idea that she has
another escape route, hidden in a place they will never find.
Anger surges back into her vein. She slices it just to stay sane.

©2008 Stefanie Czyzyk