The First Cut

I came home; tired, worn down and saw myself as completely helpless, hopeless and useless. By the time I get home, I was so overwhelmed by work and the depression rushing through my veins, my brain and my heart. I wanted a release, I wanted to cry, to let it all out, for some reason the puffy eyes can do me some good. I try to cry, I wanted to cry, to let it all out in the open. I'm here in my sanctuary, my space”my empty space. The tears refuse to come out; I kept trying to get it out of me but”nothing. I'm desperate for a good cry. I glanced over to the table next to me; my glass of water from last night is still there. I reached over and grab the glass and walked over to my bathroom. I stood in front of the sink and looked at myself in the mirror; the evilness in me is eating me alive. I'm messed up and I know it. I threw the glass to the sink to see it shatter into pieces. I picked up those shattered pieces of glass and made my way back to my beat down bed. I started with my hand, not knowing that the blade would have even got through then I saw the blood. The sensation is indescribable; it didn't hurt as I thought it would have. The blood somehow eases my pain and I continue the cut. This time more on my hand and I made my way to my wrist, the blood dripped down to the bed sheet and I lie there comforted by my own blood, gentle release. Pain has never been so beautiful, so pure and so reassuring.