New blade, same action.

I’m twelve– not little, not big, just me. I know exactly how to get what I need from every sharpener I can sneak or find- pry the plastic apart, get the blade inside. Friends talk behind my back, I know they do, and school’s just one more thing I can’t get through. I take my time when I break them open slow– it’s mine, my thing, nobody has to know. Adults say I don’t get what hurt really means, but when their words cut deep and nothing fits right between the life I have and what I’m supposed to be, this blade makes sense – it’s how I breathe. With my hands, I can push and pull hard, scrape my knuckles on the edges marred from being split apart again and again same as how I feel inside, trying to stand.