Therapy Bits

There’s a moment before the sting —
a breath held
like the world waiting to see
if I’ll go through with it.

The air feels sharp,
my thoughts louder than pulse,
each one a blade edge
pressing closer to skin.

The mirror stares back, blank,
as if it refuses to know me —
as if I’m the ghost in my own room,
watching a body that used to be mine.

The knife isn’t evil.
It’s just honest —
cold, certain, simple.
It asks nothing, takes nothing
I haven’t already given up.

After, there’s quiet.
Not peace —
just the kind of silence
that hums in the bones
when the noise finally burns out.

And I sit there,
watching red fade to pink,
wondering if the wound
is the only part of me
that still knows how to feel.