Scrawled across the pages of this wilted book are
words I never dared to utter out loud. Written
at a time when I was lost; desperate to stumble
across any shred of belonging. I didn’t know
where I was, who I was, or why I was…
only that I was lost.
Letters all in caps, inked in rich red blood, howled
as I silently read them — begging to be free
from the pages to which they were bound. Words
so simple, so cutting, so raw, wept for me when
my own tears ran dry.
Now, looking in the mirror, those words
live on, burned into my mind’s eye. Eyes
opened or closed, they are all I can see. Haunted
by their unapologetic permanence, I grab
the razor blade — the same kind used to carve
flesh all those years ago. But this time
is different.
I carefully trace my finger across the blade,
remembering the feeling of it piercing
through my virgin skin for the first time. The
way my stomach dropped when endorphins
were released. Pleasure from pain. My body’s
reaction was to crave more.
I take another longing look at the steel blade
that lay in my hand; urged to recreate
the scene I saw in the book. But this time
your voice came to me — a voice of reason. A
voice of hope. I set the blade on the counter
and smiled at my demons staring back at
me in the mirror.
And as time went on, the words in the book
faded and my mind’s eye imagined something
completely different. The words re-emerged
as something else — something beautiful
and hopeful.
I pray that one day, whatever words
haunt you, too, begin to fade and change.
That the way you see past indiscretions
is seen through a lens of kindness and
grace. That you put down the razor
breathe, and smile.