I’m thinking of cutting.

I’ve tried recently and even that is too difficult.

The very thought makes me shudder. I imagine the cold blade and my warm skin, fragile yet oddly elastic and ungiving.

My skin does not want to break.

Still, I open my eyes, usually filled with tears at this point, and I grab my blade.

Cutting isn’t easy. I press the blade to my skin, lick my lips and hesitate.

I feel revulsion. My body does not want to bleed for me and my heartache. But still I try again. This time I just lightly lay the blade across my skin, just to see it.

The knife is beautiful. Mulit chrome and cut very stylishly. I love this blade. I bought it to protect me and now ironically, I must make it do the opposite. I must make it break its vow to its master.

“Hurt me instead”

But it’s not easy and I start to tremble. The first hot tear slides down my face. I need a glass of wine.

“I can do this.”

But I can’t and I feel like even more of a failure. I can’t even get my own punishment right.

I lay down my knife and make a promise.

“Another day.”