I know you started small, at the age of eight.
You begin drawing in your arms, like a little artist in areas no one was supposed to see.
You began to treat your body like a canvas—except your artwork is messy, full of just straight random lines.
The way it glides.
The way the liquid drips across your skin.
From pen to blade, from black to red.
You find euphoria in it.
Maybe it is because your mind matches with your body.
Maybe it is because you cannot vent your emotion and pain to anyone.
It helps you soothe your raging mind.
Then the comfort turned into addiction.
To me who I almost killed,
You were very close to succeeding, you almost ended at 13.
The way your vision blurred.
The way the world spun.
The way the blood kept gushing out.
The way you hoped that the next line would finally bring peace.
You began to carve too deep, trying to find the comfort you once felt.
You crave for its sting, for its itchiness, for its burning sensation, for its white lines left behind.
For you, it is a way to punish yourself—because you believe you did not deserve anything at all.
To the person I used to be,
I know you started small.
You tried to be clean for just one day.
For just 24 hours.
Days turned into weeks.
Weeks turned into months.
The redness finally faded, yet you were still haunted.
The itch returned, and the cravings followed.
You stopped—but still panic when you cannot even find it.
And finally, you broke the cycle, the curse, and stopped at 17.
Your favorite blade.
You sometimes stopped to think about it.
You missed it.
You loved it—to the point where you cover your body for the same reason.
You loved it—to the point it became a memory, and you do not need it anymore.
You loved it—to the point where you think you cannot live without it.
And now, you live without it.
