It started in fifth grade.
With a safety pin and some poetry.
He asked if I did it. I told him no.
So I went home and tried it.

The next day I showed him the scars.
The next week I was in therapy.
The next month I was going crazy.
The next year I was so much worse.

It started with a safety pin. Small lines on my wrist. Easily covered or explained.

I remember the first time I used a razor blade. The effect was instantanious. The rush of blood, flowing like a river, down my arm, onto the floor.

They worried and I liked it. They gave me the attention I craved, that I felt was lacking in my life. They gave me the sense that someone cared. So, I went crazy.

Wake up. Cut.
Get to school. Cut.
Skip class. Cut.
Go to lunch. Cut.
Get home. Cut.
Cut. Shower. Cut.
Cut. Sleep.
Wake up.....

It became a pattern, like a daily agenda. The things that had to be accomplished.

And then the hospital came.
And the medication.
And the solitude.
And the realization
that I was not one of them
I am not one of anything.

Months passed by.
No more hospital.
No more therapy.
No more medication.
No more feeling.
Just a hidden dresser
full of emotion.

Someone opened the dresser this year.
Opened it back up. I'm reliving my past.

It is different now. I know what I can and cannot say to these people.
I know what I should hide and what I should give.

It is the hardest thing to work through. It takes great concentration and energy. It is like swimming the 500 in less than seven minutes. So much concentration and energy.

Six years have passed.
In and out of this continuious journey of happy, sad, happy, sad, sad, sad......
And I'm still right here.