one year and four months s p i r a l e d into emptiness…

and this was me in july 2009:
biting back the pain, i pulled my skin tight and
left twenty-one self-inflicted wounds across my thighs.
(luckily) i was alone in a room shared with eight girls.

(all the while my mind screamed, "no!"
as a blank voice whispered, "yes.")

the blood fell swiftly and there was crimson red stains
on stark white towels. i shivered and threw them aside.
and i waited for the bleeding to stop until i pulled on
pajama shorts and headed to bed with a heavy heart.

(victory [or was it defeat?] was short-lived.
and the wounds healed into purple scars.)

"what happened?" someone asked the next morning.
i said nothing as i pulled my shorts over the scars,
and then she knew i didn't want to speak of it.

{"i scraped my legs on wood," i tell them.
and—i think—they believe me without a word.)

i wanted—needed—control over my life,
and that was the only solitude i could find.
it is forgiveness i ask for and the forgiveness
has already been given to me, but i am blind.