incisions

it isn’t about blood. not really. it’s about silence how loud it gets when there’s nowhere for the ache to go. the blade doesn’t scream but it listens. it listens better than people do, better than the mirror, better than the voice that loops you are too much you are not enough. sometimes I press down just to feel the edge because numb is a room with no windows, and pain is a crack in the wall where light leaks in. each line a sentence I never said. each drop a punctuation mark to the chaos in my head. there is a strange peace in the ritual the way skin opens like it’s been waiting to speak. don’t call it weakness. call it translation. call it survival in a language you were never taught. I never wanted to die. I just wanted the storm to touch something besides my lungs. so I carved the weather into my arms small, red forecasts of how bad it really was inside. and I’m still here. stitched together with scar tissue and willpower, learning the slow art of being gentle where I used to break.