The perfect thigh.
Untouched,
uncut,
clean.

Of course,
I would go and
take the blade
and make one
perfect
cut.

That's just what I would do,
it's who I am,
right?

Someone told me
I stressed him out.
I laughed.
"I know I do."

I hear the people in stores,
around my campus (if I go)
jokingly saying
"Girl, I'mma cut!"

That phrase makes me
reach to my arms
and take my nails
and dig into my flesh.

Can't they say something else?
Like "Girl, I'mma cry"
or something that will
effect me less?

I'm defeated.
It doesn't make sense.
I'm so damn depressed.
I still don't know who I am.

I pretend to want
to talk to people,
to chat with them,
but it's all lies.

I sit there crying.
I'm talking to damn strangers.
And they're acting like
they were my best friend.

Maybe they were.
Maybe they truly goddamn were.
But I don't fucking remember.
So I go to the blade.

To help me remember,
or just for the pain.
I don't know anymore.
It's just a comfort.

That's why I took the blade
to my uncut thigh.
Because I can't remember.
And people make we want to.

(when the truth is,
I honest to god don't.)