The Break-Up Letter
I’m a self-mutilator. I used to use the term “recovering self-mutilator” a lot, but it’s not the mutilation I need to recover from. I can attest that I am currently not a danger to myself or others; this is simply expression.
In treatment centers for that sort of thing, a tool they often use is a break-up letter to the disorder. I changed it up just a bit.
Alex, It’s time we talked.
I’ve accompanied you these five long years,
stood from afar even longer.
I’m sorry for flirting; I can’t help it.
Shiny things like me are meant to be kept from children.
Truth is, I never found you
as entrancing as you found me.
Hiding me in a book, a hidden pocket,
you couldn’t hear my muffled protest.
I’ve hidden from you,
jumped out in the most inopportune moments,
I’ve even bitten you several dozen times;
I’ve torn you to shreds.
And why wouldn’t I,
with the way you treat me?
Stolen me from work,
left in the bathroom to rust,
and thrown me out again and again and again,
finally free of you,
only to track me down and bring me back in?
I don’t want to drag this out;
you’ve dragged me along too many times for that.
You’re bat shit crazy, yes,
but the moments you put me down
were the happiest I’ve seen you.
I never want to see you again,
but I know our paths will cross,
in the kitchen, in the aisles at the grocery store,
and anywhere you look for me.
I know that look, thinking hard,
almost willing a sweat,
trying to resist the sight of me.
Just remember, I can’t stand the sight of you
and if need be,
I’ll kill you,
or scare you so bad, you’ll never be right again.
But I don’t want to do that.
I want to be
with some nice scraper
with a steady job
and a place I’m kept safe
to serve a purpose,
the one I’m meant for.
The bottom line,
the one you’ve tried to draw all these years
and pushed, pushed, pushed,
is that girl and razorblade just aren’t meant to be.
I’m sorry.
