Handle in its home

⚠️TW⚠️

I place the eyebrow razor down,

Face clean shaven,

Doing my skincare.

I stumble back over to it hours later, 

The handle digging into my hand as the blade runs over my skin.

"Just enough for it to hurt a bit.."

But I pick at the scabs days later, 

The razor sitting on my counter,

A reminder of my weakness.

I pick at my lips,

Biting the skin on my fingers,

But the razor finds it's home,

In my shaky palm,

Sliding over my skin like a comb.

"No more. I'm done with this."

I throw it all away,

Watching as the cuts fade into scars that I cover with make up every time I wear shorts.

I dig through my parents bathroom things,

Tears streaming down my face as I try to stay quiet.

The moment the cold metal hits my skin I breathe,

I feel whole,

The handle finding its home,

As small droplets fall, 

Staining the sink,

The razor calming my burning eyes.