Silver whispers against skin, a quiet promise only I can hear. The air is thick, suffocating almost, pressing down on my chest as if the weight of it could crush me entirely. It’s a familiar pressure, one I can’t shake—like the world outside has become distant and everything inside is raw, too much to hold, too much to hide.22Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡafc5fZg5bD
The first touch is cold, a fleeting kiss of metal that sharpens the already-edged silence. The warmth that follows feels like betrayal, seeping into the skin, deeper than the metal ever could, wrapping around my bones. The lines—sharp, vivid—are a language written in red, too deep for bandages to cover, too shallow to break me free from the release I chase but can never fully reach.
Maybe if I carve the feeling out, the ache in my ribs, the weight of every unsaid word and unspoken grief, will spill over—drip away, leave me hollow. Empty, in a way that feels like peace. Maybe absence, in all its quiet, could be salvation.
But the silence lingers. The weight stays, pressing harder, like a second skin that’s somehow even more suffocating than the first. It never lets go.
The lines dry and sting. I run my fingers over them, feeling the rough edges like they’re a trail I can’t stop following. Was that enough? Have I given enough? The questions echo as I stare at the damage done, but it feels almost cleaner than the mess inside my head—the storm that churns without ever breaking. A chaos that can’t be explained, only endured.
I tell myself, You’re broken. You cannot heal. The words don’t feel like a lie anymore. They settle deep in my chest, more real than anything else I’ve ever known. As the lines turn to scars, I wonder—did I not go deep enough? Was there something I missed? Something I need to feel to drown out all the noise that won’t stop?
As I go deeper, the words of my therapist crowd my mind, but they feel distant—too soft, too far to touch. Ground yourself. Focus on your breath. Tell yourself the thoughts don’t control you. I try, but they don’t seem to help. The chaos feels easier to endure, to let it spin and twist, than to sit with it and face the sharp edges of my thoughts in the dark.
I snap the rubber band around my wrist, the sting cutting through the haze, trying to pull me back into place. Maybe if I just try again, just one more time, it will be different. Maybe this time I’ll be able to stop before it gets worse. The hope feels fragile, like a thread that could snap at any moment, but it’s the only thing I have to hold on to.
Thoughts return—heavy, thick like fog. Pain sets in, slow and persistent, burning deep under the skin. And the scars become art—each one a jagged brushstroke, painted in blood. A permanent testament to the struggle I can’t quit, no matter how hard I try. Must stay in the lines—trace them until the world goes quiet, until my mind isn’t screaming anymore.
Each slice reveals I’m still alive—alive enough to hurt, alive enough to feel every moment of the ache that won’t stop. The hot water burns when it touches the open wounds. Walking becomes an effort, like each step could break me, but I keep moving, anyway. This time, they hurt more to touch, so I slide into my pajamas, letting the fabric brush against my skin like it’s a balm. The burn is sharp, but it’s something I can focus on, something to distract me—just enough—to quiet the storm inside.
Each time the lines fade, the urge comes back stronger, relentless, a pull that tugs me deeper into the darkness. Each line is a reminder of the pain that led me here—the overwhelming thought that there is no escape. This is the only way to silence it all.
