I promised myself that I would never start cutting.
I've seen what it does.
"It's like a drug," she told me.
Part of me wants to break that promise so badly.
Part of me is grateful that I don't have the courage to do so.
All I can bring myself to do at this point
is take a Swiss Army knife
and slowly scratch away the skin on my hand
in the shape of a cross.
My rational side tries to pretend
that it's a reminder.
It's a reminder, all right—
of just how weak I am.