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I cut myself tonight. I hadn't done it in ages. I don't know how it came about. Well, I suppose I do. I helped mum out and she bought me a bottle of wine because she knows that is what I love more than her. And I was empty of stomach and I was empty of head and I drunk it too quickly to fill me up. I drunk it out of a glass, it seemed the thing to do. I think it is a not a wine glass. Perhaps it is a cocktail glass. Long stem, green. What cocktail is that? Cosmopolitan?
Drank the last of the glass, the bottle and I heard something on the radio that caused me to stand up to turn my heater on. The glass on the floor was broken by my foot. The base came away from the stem like a velvet divorce. I tried to put the glass broken into that black rubbish bag so many times. Each time the bag would elude me, like a spirit, a ghost, a memory.
I thought I'd trace the glass along my skin, just to remind myself. But the glass ran into my flesh. The blood grew underneath my skin with each passing pulse until it forced itself into vision, turning red like a curse. It split my skin as it spilt on my skin. A velvet divorce between the right side of my hand and the left. And the euphoria was sweet but ephemeral. So I went into the toilet and pressed the toilet paper I had shoplifted against my torn skin. I took it away. The blood came again. I put it back again.
I took it away. It came again. I put it back again. I put a plaster on it. You give and take away, O Lord. Mighty Yahweh. My Jesus sweeter than I can imagine. My heart will not bleed to death tonight. Although. It would be nice to sleep. To bleed into a sleep. Tomorrow I will rip off the plaster. I will sit there and none of my friends will see the thin red line of clot on my skin. But I will look at my hand and remember euphoria. None of my friends will see.
