Every once in a while, I still miss cutting. I think my therapist gets aggitated with me when I tell her this, so I’ve decided to quit telling her. This morning is one of those days though where I miss it. 

It’s getting warm enough outside where I don’t always need a jacket. This means my scars are exposed. As I drive to work, the rays from the rising sun illuminate the web of scars on my arm. In that moment, I need to cut. I need to feel my skin splitting open and I need to see the crimson dots bubbling to the surface. It’s beautiful and numb all at once. It’s perfection. 

I know that the addict in my brain is lying to me; taunting me really. But it’s true: sometimes I really miss cutting. There isn’t anything else in the world like it. 

530 Days.

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