I don't know when the first time I cut was. Maybe it was when I realized I'd never be perfect.
There's something exiting about taking apart a razor, really. I'd seen photos of people's cut wrists, I knew what was done. Kind of. I really didn't know how they did it, so I decided to experiment.
I sit in the bathtub and turn the razor over in my hands. I pop out the blades, and stare at them. I need to somehow pull them apart, but I'm not sure how. I remember that I have sowing needles in one of my drawers, so I stand up and get out of the tub, passing the toilet and going to the drawer. I see myself in the mirror and turn away. I grab the needle and return to the bathtub.
I drive the needle under the top blade, wiggling it until the blade pops free. I do the same to all the others, then start draining the tub. I take the blades and make a mixture of nail polish remover and water, then soak them for a minute.
I take one out, wash it off, dry it with a piece of toilet paper, and sit down on the floor. The tiles are cold, and my breath is shallow. My cheeks are flushed, and I'm excited. I take the blade, so pretty silver, and write F-A-T on my hip. Blood blossoms, like little red tears. I stand up and admire my handiwork. I trace the letters with a finger, watching as the blood smears.
If I can't be perfect, why not ruin myself?