Things I Had to Give Up to Survive

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