I grew up always sleeping on
My tummy; I know
My momma has a picture
Of little me somewhere with my
Butt in the air while I
Cuddle a stuffed dog.
It’s creepy yet endearing,
All the photos of me
Asleep. I can’t imagine
Her having to look back
At those with only tears
In her eyes.
When I started cutting my
Abdomen, it tickled at first;
My blade drew blood but not
Enough; it didn’t soothe the
Thoughts intruding,
Those deluding.
I tossed and turned that
First night, I tried and
Tried to find that position
Again, face mushed against
The pillow with toilet paper
Stuffed up my T-shirt.
I learned about the story line of
Fall From Innocence in
September.
I’m not sure I’ve ever
Heard a story more accurate;
More honest.
That night I tossed and turned
Before I realized my mistake;
I couldn’t go back, not after that,
So I rolled over and stared at the
Ceiling, my heart breaking in two,
Because I knew what I’d done.
I took away another part of that
Little me. I shattered another part
Of the mirror I try so desperately
To keep intact, to keep so maybe
I can find her again when I
Look into it.
I let the shards from the mirror
Pierce my skin, let the blades
Drag across my tummy again and
Again; summer was coming, I had to
Have a place to hide—I don’t want to
Give up childhood with the water slide.
And I can’t believe I did it,
I still did it anyway,
Gave in to the hoodies and that
Heat and sweaty faces and I
Made sure to wear extra deodorant:
If I give her up I should smell nice too.
I just wish I could have done more.
Not more cutting, no.
I wish I could have stopped
And said, “Mom, I wish I was dead.”
I wish I asked for help before
I couldn’t stand to be alive anymore