by Kalina Smith
(CW: Self-harm, cutting, mental health)
I’m eight years old,
And my mom is watching Dr. Phil.
“My guests today say their daughter hurts herself,
Scratches and cuts and burns herself.”
And my mom scrunches up her face,
She mutters, “My god, what a disgrace.”
I’m ten years old.
I’m so frustrated and hurt.
But I don’t remember why.
I sit outside alone on crunchy leaves.
I’m holding a stick and I,
Think, “Wow, the end is so sharp.”
I wonder what would happen if I just-
Yeah, I left a mark.
I’m twelve years old.
I’m so angry I want to scream until my lungs burn.
I do; it’s not enough.
I throw everything I see.
And yet I’m still so angry.
I want to hurt someone,
But wait, there’s a thumbtack,
Holding up a crumpled poster.
And I pull it down and I drag it across my hand.
Suddenly, it’s not as bad.
I’m sixteen years old.
So anxious, my hands quake,
And I drop a makeup mirror.
Broken glass litters the carpet.
And hey, there’s a piece so perfectly straight.
That was the first time I broke the skin,
And nothing ever felt so great.
I’m seventeen years old.
These scissors are dull as fuck,
And take several glides to slice through,
But it’s senior year and I can’t understand the homework,
That I’m supposed to do.
My dad has a box of razor blades in the bathroom.
They look so angry and cool,
Sharp and flat with a mouth in the middle.
When I drag them across my thighs,
It hurts more than a little.
I’m eighteen years old.
I’m already supposed to drive,
But they yell and they yell so loud,
It’s all I hear when I fail that test four times.
And they say they’re not mad, but I know they fucking are.
That’s why I took apart a Daisy razor,
In the backseat of the car.
Now I keep it in my purse and the jagged edges nick my fingers,
So that those feelings of failure can linger.
I’m twenty years old.
She’s supposed to be my best friend,
But it doesn’t matter how hard I try,
She’s always going to make me cry.
I know that’s not how friends should be,
But it’s all I’ve ever known.
We got eyebrow razors at Walmart
And I wish they’d saw right down to the bone.
I’m twenty-one years old.
My favorite uncle is terminally ill,
And there’s nothing we can do,
Besides hope and pray for a miracle,
Except I’m the only one in this goddamn family.
Who knows they never come true.
I cry alone on campus the weekend he passes,
But I don’t cut myself,
Because that would make Uncle Blue gray.
I’m twenty-two years old.
I fell deep in love
With a punk rock poet who never came to class.
At least, I think I did.
I’m not sure I know what love means.
For me, it was drunken confessions,
And hungover depression.
Who am I kidding?
It was always fucking depression.
But here’s what I do know:
He said he was going on a date
And holy shit, did that make me crazed.
I used my trusty eyebrow razor,
And I sliced myself from wrist to elbow
And suddenly I was the eyebrow-raiser.
I’m still twenty-two years old.
That part just got too long.
I went to my brother’s graduation the next day,
And I wore a sleeveless dress,
Because it was spring in Arkansas.
And yeah, on the way down, my grandma saw.
I felt so stupid and oh man, I cried.
But my mom didn’t call me a disgrace.
She gave me a bracelet and kissed the tears on my face.
“Love life,” it said and I wanted to roll my eyes,
Because actually, life sucks and everyone dies.
But she loved me so fiercely and I could see
How much it hurt her when I hurt me.
I’m twenty-seven years old.
Two therapists and eight medications later.
If I had to guess, I’d say I’m better.
It’s been over four years since I’ve cut
Anything but dinner or crafts, but
Then again,
The more the scars fade, the more my anxiety rises.
And I know the only reason I stopped
Is to make everyone else happy with other vices.
Is anyone worse than the other?
Yes, according to my mother.
True, things are different now,
That I’m four years clean.
But if the urges do come back
What will that mean?
***
Kalina is a writer of gothic and literary fiction and confessional nonfiction and poetry. She is a high school English teacher in Arkansas. She has previously been published in Nebo, A Literary Journal, Free Spirit, The Ignatian, FLARE: The Flagler Review, and the Cackling Kettle, and is forthcoming in One Art: a poetry journal.