crash&burn.

It's always there.

Itching. Actual itching, my skin aching for the feel. justonce, It says. you'llfeelmuchbetter, It says. you'vealreadydoneitbefore.whynotagain?, It says.

I look at my collection, in a small antique tin The Friend's mother gave me for Christmas the year before last. A box cutter. Six razor blades. Several pins to heat and drop on skin. A lighter. Safety pins. Depending on when you look in this box, this pretty little box, you might find shards of glass or shards of mirrors. Usually there are tacks, they are good for stabbing, for digging. Sometimes there are exacto knives, the surgical quality kind that cuts deep and quick.
There are bandaids, too, all shapes and sizes. Gauze. Ointment. Sprays. Sewing needles and thin fishing line for stitches.

It asks. It yells. It pleads. It wakes me in middle of the night, gasping and panicing. It wakes me in middle of the night, telling me that there is a single razor that is always kept under my pillow, waiting. It tells me I could do it, wrap a towel under my leg in the dark and slice.
But under my pillow there is also a little drawing of Tiger, from a picture I saw of her. She's smiling. She wouldn't smile if I did it, if I cut. So in middle of the night I don't do it.