Scars

Brown wood handle
Flicking out the blade is not as easy as it seems
The joints are filled with pine sap
From that summer
The time we tried to build
A house with pine boughs
I can still smell it
Sticky sweet summers are gone.

Flashing silver blade
It's dull now
Worn down by our attempts at whittling
I still have the stack of toothpicks I made.

I could never make anything real.

But perhaps you're wondering
What any of this should mean
To you.

Nothing, I suppose
Trainspotting's playing now
It makes this easier

I choose not to choose life
I choose to place the blade against my arm
I choose to push down hard
I choose to drag it across the vein
Blood trickles out

This is not a suicide note
Or poem
Or attempt

The second cut is harder
Parallel to the first
Should've bought a new
Sharp
Knife
I want to see blood

Sometimes I can't catch my breath
Lying in bed
My chest constricts.
Lately the panic is all I feel
But I can't cry
Real tears.
Tears of blood now
The third cut hurts
My skin is pink
Trainspotting flickers on my computer screen

This is not a suicide
This is not a cry for help

In ninth grade Evan's dad died
You remember
We watched her closely
Everyone did
But she never took too many pills
Or jumped off a ledge
Or tied a rope just so
Or dragged a knife down her veins

Later I found out that she'd stopped eating
Said it helped her forget.

I pull the knife along
Fourth time
Last time
Shallower
My arm is throbbing anyway
And the trickle of blood is slowing.

Thank you