Kissing Before Breaking

Why am I doing this to myself?

I inflict pain on myself, pain that shouldn’t be there. I should move on.

Fuck you. Fuck you, fuck you, fuck you.

I’m gasping, sobbing. My head is against the mirror, and I catch a glimpse of myself. Snot comes from my nostrils, rivulets of tears stream down my cheeks. My mouth is a red, trembling mess, unable to close, unable to stop the soft whimpers, the suppressed sobs.

How did I sink this low? How the hell could I be so fucking stupid to do this? To even let the notion enter my head, let alone stick around.

You’re so stupid, I tell myself. So goddamn fucking stupid.

I don’t let go of the razor. If anything, I grip it tighter. I stare at my opposite hand, at my wrist scored with one cut. Just one. I close my free hand into a fist. The wrist muscles move. The cut ripples with the skin.

It hurts. I hurt more.

Oh, fuck this. Fuck trying to move on. What’s the point? What’s the use? The agony is endless. It burns me, it eats at me.

I move my head. My reflection moves with me, ripples with me.

I swallow. And I drag the teeth of the razor across my wrist again. It kisses my skin before it breaks it. Kissing before breaking.

Kissing before breaking.

I pant as the pain surges through me. The nerve endings communicating. My heart is thrumming. How can the source of pain sound so alive, so routine?

I swallow. I eye my wrist. Is it enough, the nerve endings are chanting. The level of pain my body feels—and the level of pain my heart feels…

It’s not enough. I know this instinctively. It’s not enough. The pain that is burned off from that one simple cut, from the second deeper cut—it’s all replaced by a deeper agony, a hotter fire.

I reposition myself. I feel nauseous. Shit. The blood is starting to run down my wrist. Shit, shit, shit. Am I going to die? Did I cut too deep?

Shit.

I don’t know. I just want the agony to stop. I want it to be burned away. I want my body to match my heart in agony, in pain.

I swallow again. I feel like I might vomit—I am struggling to keep down the vomit.

It’s hot in the bathroom. It’s small too. A giggle bursts out of me. Why am I laughing? Why?

I’m laughing at myself, of course. I’m laughing at myself for being such a fucking idiot.

I wouldn’t do this. Normally I don’t do this.

But fuck you. It hurts. Fuck you.

I just can’t forget, can I?

Something inside of me is sweetly serenading me, asking me for one more. One more cut, and then you’ll be all right. You won’t have to do this again.

I start making noises. Inhuman noises. Small, soft keens, punctuated with sharp intakes of breath. I can’t stop. I can’t move.

No, that’s a lie. I can move. My hand is moving. My wrist is ready.

One more cut, I tell myself. One more.

I only get halfway through. I start to convulse. My noises stop, and my mouth is filled with acid.

I turn over on my stomach. I vomit. I vomit on the bathroom floor.

Shit, I’m a mess. God, I hate this. I hate this.

I start crying again. This time its deep, powerful sobs that rack my body.

The razor is out of my hand. It grins at me from the floor. I swat it away, and it spins and skates across the linoleum.

I swallow. My throat is raw; my mouth tastes of burning acid, raw waste.

I curl up on the floor sideways, knees against my chest—fetal position.

This is disgusting. I am disgusting. I’m so stupid, for not letting go.

It breaks. Everything breaks eventually. Skin breaks, hearts break, everything breaks.

It all breaks.