F**k This

Here’s how it is. Today I stood up and looked out the window and my heart sank. I can’t think of a better way to say it. The doors closed and the lights went out.  I look at the weekend and it seems like an infinite series of steps that I just can’t walk. So I’ll have to push myself and fuck I don’t want to.

I wonder if recovered drug addicts, the ones who shoot up, have a hypersensitive awareness along their old injection sites. My left arm remembers being cut. Whenever I sink to a certain depth, I become oh so aware of that inner forearm, and I feel the pull of pure craving. I wouldn’t, I don’t, never gain, but the temptation is always there. Because, damnit, it was cathartic, both punishment and release. And surprisingly little pain. The pain came after and I deserved it and treasured it. Sure I had to hide the evidence with long sleeves, but I’m used to hiding. When have I ever not hidden? When do I not self-censor, pretend, retreat?

So this is me not self-censoring this small section of my life. If I were ever into S&M, it would involve knives and razors and blood. And all the self-loathing and tumult and unbearable tangle of god knows what would be excised, at least for a while.