The Voice Beneath My Skin

The moments I crave the most

are when I feel no control

over anything—

my space,

my situation,

my emotions,

sometimes even people.

.

An overwhelming sensation of powerlessness

makes my skin burn.

.

I crave the feeling of the slice

but I know I can never fulfill it.

.

My body pleads for relief—

all this loss of control.

.

When I hurt myself,

it was the only thing I could control.

My reality was out of control,

and so was I.

But pain—

pain was mine to command.

.

The bright red lines were proof.

The itch and burn that came after—

reminders that I’m still here.

Still real.

Still in control

of at least myself.

.

I loved seeing them.

I always thought I was mental for that.

.

Even now,

seeing those scars on my wrist

symbolizes both my pain

and my healing.

.

I lived this cycle for eight years.

Started at 12.

Promised to stop at 20.

.

All those years carving my skin—

just me

trying to be seen,

to be heard,

by anyone.

.

I wish someone had seen my pain

and coddled me

instead of scolding me.

I wish someone held me close

and told me

everything is going to be okay.

That I am safe.

.

But no one did.

I was alone.

.

My pain always had a voice.

Sometimes hers was louder than mine—

still is.

.

She cried for love,

for inclusion,

for someone,

anyone,

anything.

.

That’s how the razor became a ritual.

.

At first,

my skin hated the feeling

of the razor dragging across her.

.

Now she burns,

tingles,

with an anticipation

I can’t fill anymore.

.

The craving is intense.

My arm burns.

Not acting on it

feels like a horrible itch

I can’t scratch.

.

The itch dissolves

into sadness,

then tears,

sometimes frustration.

.

But I will continue

to deny the craving.

.

It is one of the hardest things

I continue to do for myself.

.

But I will continue to do it

forever.